Anything for Charity
by OughtaKnowBetter
Summary: Baseball, city planning, numbers, and a crime lord: keeps all three Eppes men active. Conclusion is posted. Does the ending work?
1. Chapter 1

Anything for Charity

By OughtaKnowBetter

Usual disclaimer: they own everything, I own nothing.

Warning: this piece is rated R for adult situations. If you prefer not to read about such things, you are warned.

Author's note: sorry that this took such a long time to put out. Life intervened, and the plot wouldn't gel for a bit, and I'm one of those people who refuses to post until I'm reasonably certain that I can offer you a complete story. I have too much respect for you, as a reader, to drop a story in the middle and never resolve it. That just seems _wrong_. So I hope that this was worth the wait...

* * *

_Not good_.

Getting called up to your boss's office on short notice was never good. Don tried to think of what it might be: the Nelson case was going fine, ought to be closed up and ready for the D.A. within the week. The Santino murder was a done deal and had been for the last month. All there was left to do was to go to court and testify, unless Santino's lawyer persuaded the guy to cop a guilty plea and do five to ten instead of life.

The St. Augustine racketeering gig, that must be it. One of the hotshots in the criminal ring thought that they could shoot a hole in Don's case by harassing the agents involved, which meant that Don _et al_ would have to defend themselves against false charges of witness intimidation or some such before the case could ever go before a judge. That _had_ to be it; it was the only thing that made sense. Not good; Don or one of his team or maybe even all of them would end up on suspension while Area Director D'Angelo investigated and exonerated them. _Damn_. That would set him back another week on the Nelson case, maybe lose the suspect altogether when Nelson fled to some island where the FBI couldn't touch him. Maybe there was some way that he could keep some of his team uninvolved and on Nelson's tail. Megan, that was it. She'd been doing some work in Washington, been out of town for a week. Maybe he could set her up to keep Nelson from escaping scott free.

D'Angelo's secretary barely acknowledged him as he entered the anteroom, merely waving him through without so much as a smile. Don's heart elevated itself by two inches to sit throbbing in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard. _Damn. Damn, damn, damn._ Maybe if he said it enough in his mind, someone would notice and take pity on him.

Area Director D'Angelo was staring out through the window at the vista of Los Angeles shrouded in smog, the sun a cheery bright ball of fire in the afternoon haze. His back was to Don. Don coughed uncertainly. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

D'Angelo turned around. "Sit down, Eppes."

_Here it comes. Do I offer my resignation now or after the circus?_

Don sat. He perched on the edge of the chair, the easier to make an escape. D'Angelo too seated himself behind his desk, the director's chair far more comfortable than the fake leather job offered to office guests. D'Angelo leaned forward on his elbows, steepling his fingers together. The light from the window behind made it difficult for Don to discern his features. Was the Area Director smiling or frowning? Don feared it was the latter. D'Angelo spoke. "When was the last time you played ball, Eppes?"

_Okay, pick up my jaw and put it back where it belongs_. Don nearly choked, turned it into a genteel cough. "Ball, sir?"

"Baseball, Eppes. You remember? It's the game where you hit a little ball with a stick and then run around the bases and slide home in the mud?"

"Yes, sir." Don's brain seemed stuck on freeze. Yeah, he remembered baseball. Remembered that at one point it was going to be his life, until the light bulb went off and let him know that the major leagues were out of his ball park, pun intended. One of those 'life turning points' that everyone talked about. For Don it had led to the FBI and a far more satisfying career.

Of course, there was always that little sniggering thought that had refused to go away for the last decade: _what if I really had been good enough? What if I didn't really give it a chance? What if I just didn't try hard enough?_

Naw. Deep down inside, Don knew better. _Didn't he?_

"Baseball, sir?" he asked politely.

"Baseball, Eppes." D'Angelo leaned back in his chair, listened to it creak in protest under his weight. "You're familiar with the 'friendly' little game we have going with the LAPD every few years?"

"Uh, no, sir." Don couldn't remember hearing about that.

"Last one must have been just before you transferred in. Friendly little game, do it for charity, for the underprivileged. Raises cash to buy computers and internet access for needy kids, helps 'em learn more and develop some skills to make a better life for themselves instead of dying in the streets. You interested?"

"Yes, sir." And puzzled. The typical call for players was to tack a sign up sheet on the bulletin board by the front elevator and in the employee lounge. An invitation by the director could only mean…

"That's right, Eppes." There was a reason that D'Angelo had made it to the top of this office. He read every thought going through Special Agent Eppes' mind. "Police Chief Williams and I have a running bet going, a bet that he's won the last three times. I'd like to reverse that trend, Eppes. I have as much pride as the next man in this organization but even more than that: I'm losing _money!_ How about it, Eppes?"

_Like I'm going to say no to the boss?_

* * *

Charlie walked into the house—_my house now, not Dad's_. _Still feels odd to say that_—and dumped his book bag on the kitchen table. Oops, not on the kitchen table but on the one kitchen chair left empty, mostly because the kitchen table and the remainder of the chairs were filled not with edibles but with a small housing project. Miniature house parts sat on the fringes of the table with additional pieces—was that a roof?—perched on the chairs that surrounded the project. Charlie goggled at the scene.

"Dad?"

"Good, I left that chair for you. You always dump your bag on the table."

"Hi, Dad."

"Hi to you too, Charlie. Home early?"

Charlie automatically glanced at his watch, then at the clock on the wall. "No. It's almost six."

Alan Eppes frowned over the small building, all but ignoring his youngest. "For you, that's early." He rubbed at his chin, peering at the building project.

Charlie looked, tried to see what his father was working on. "I take it this means pizza delivery?"

"Uh-huh. Unless you want to cook."

"I'll pass." Charlie started to get interested in his father's project. There seemed to be some real art to it. It was hard to see with the building and surroundings in smaller pieces, but he could swear that it had the flavor of a Spanish hacienda. The grounds had been painted a dusty brown with a palm tree or two along the tall gate that enclosed the environs, and the building itself appeared to be made of a miniature adobe with a slanted roof to guide imaginary raindrops into a gutter and then into a rain barrel. It wouldn't take much to pretend that a burro and his sombrero-wearing master were walking in through the main gate, ready to offer their poor wares to the lord of the hacienda. "I thought you weren't sure if you wanted to go to work for Stan Fischer. This sure looks like a planning project to me."

"With, Charlie. I'd be working _with_ him. Partners." Alan continued to stare at the miniatures. He picked up the roof, replacing it onto the topless hacienda. "This isn't for Stan."

"Whatever it is, I like it." Charlie could see the artful symmetry in the building. Where ever the real life one was, it had been a glorious home in its day. Care had been taken to curve the roof just so, to plant a tree there to soften the lines and add a window where it would take advantage of the cool ocean breeze drifting in from the bay. An oversized pool had been interred into the back lawn with three small cabanas along one edge.

"Good, because you're going to help." Alan took the roof back off, putting it carefully back onto the kitchen chair. The attic inside the 'house', now uncovered, was empty.

"I am? Dad, I'm kind of busy right now—"

"It's _pro bono_, Charlie," Alan explained, a sly smile creeping over his face. "Charity work. When was the last time you gave something to charity?"

"Just yesterday. I was very charitable toward a student that I should have flunked."

Alan dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "Not good enough. I need your help. You remember Dr. Maria del Castillo?"

Charlie frowned. "From CalSci? Isn't she in the Foreign Languages department? I seem to recall the name."

"The very one." Alan gave his youngest a withering look. "But she's in the Sociology Department, not Languages. She remembered you well enough, Charlie. What's the matter, you're not paying attention to the ladies? I eventually want grandchildren. Sooner, rather than later, if you don't mind."

"Dad!" Charlie protested. "Dr. del Castillo is fifty years old."

"Forty nine, thank you very much. She's a nice lady, and single. I just met her today; I may ask her out myself if you're not interested." There was just enough twinkle in Mr. Eppes' eye that Charlie knew that he was being teased. Half-teased; Alan Eppes really did want grandkids. "She called me up and asked me to take a look at this place." Alan indicated the project on the table. "This was her grandfather's estate. He was a descendant of one of the original land barons in the area, and this hacienda has been in the family for generations."

"Where is it?" Charlie found his interest caught, as Alan knew it would be.

"Surprisingly enough, in the middle of Los Angeles. Still intact, more or less, but not in the nicest of neighborhoods. Elena and I plan to go down there this evening, before the sun goes down. Want to come along?"

"Elena? Who's Elena?"

"Dr. del Castillo. What, I can't call her by her first name? She calls me Alan."

"Her first name is Maria."

"Yes, but her second name is Elena, and that's what she goes by. She tells me that a lot of the girls in South and Central America are named Maria, and most use their second names to keep from getting mixed up. Keep up, Charlie."

"Okay." Charlie was thinking that things were going just a little fast for him. It was an uncomfortable feeling. He usually engendered that in others. To have the tables turned, and especially by his father, was just a bit off-putting.

"So, are you coming with us or not? Having another body along in _that_ neighborhood would be a good idea."

"Sounds good. Did you ask Don?"

_Snort_. "Him. Some sort of stakeout, he said. And then told me not to go until it was broad daylight, maybe the weekend when he could go with." Another snort. "Like I was going to wait on him. I've been doing this sort of thing all of my adult life, Charlie," Alan said indignantly. "This is city planning. This is my career."

Charlie maneuvered the discussion back around to the topic at hand. "So what does Dr. del Castillo—Elena—want you to do?"

Alan warmed to his subject. "Like I said, she inherited this estate from her grandfather. She hasn't been there in years. Her grandfather stayed with her for the last few years of his life, wasn't able to stay by himself. His mind wandered too much. And then there were some problems with executing the will, and what with one thing and another, she hadn't seen the place for more than five years. She drove by it last week. Needless to say, she was more than a little upset. Told me that she used to play there, growing up."

"And your job is—" Charlie prodded.

"Oh, didn't I tell you that part? Elena wants me to come up with suggestions on how best to use the hacienda for the neighborhood. Like I said, the neighborhood has gone down hill in the last decade or so. She'd like to try to renovate it, wants ideas on how to refurbish the place, maybe improve the area a bit. She's thinking a hotel of some sort to bring in some local income and jobs, but I think we can be more creative. A community gathering place, maybe, with some local stores run by the community. Might even think about a farmer's market as part of it, with a youth center."

"Sounds good, and pretty ambitious," was Charlie's comment. "Is there money to do that?"

"Of course," his father scoffed. "All you have to do is look in the right places. Which I happen to know," he added with a grin. "Your old man isn't dead yet." He jerked his thumb at the refrigerator. "Grab something quick if you're hungry, and then we'll go. We can have something more substantial on the way back. And make it something healthy," he admonished his son. "That fast food will rot your insides."

* * *

Don refused to let the semi-pleasant expression flee from his face as he gathered his troops. "'Nother case, guys. Fairly substantial. Cancel the week end trips to the Bahamas."

"Tell me that we didn't get dumped on," David moaned, the dismay apparent. "Not that one?"

"Which one?" Colby wanted to know. He looked from Don to David to Megan and back again, puzzled. "What am I missing?"

Score one for Sinclair. The man kept his ears open, listening to the gossip not only on the streets but in the office as well.

Megan too had a gift for small talk. "Not the Rivera case," she groaned. "Don, that's a mess!"

Colby's eyes flashed in alarm. He hadn't put two and two together, but he did know a dump job when he heard it. "Oh, no. Tell me…"

"Yup." Don waved the inches-thick file at his team. "Border Patrol formally handed this over less than two hours ago. Don Juan Esteban Rivera's drug route runs straight through L.A. and we are the lucky sons—and daughter—elected to remove that blot on our fair city."

"Can we refuse it?" David was only half-joking.

"What did we do to get this kind of punishment?" Megan wanted to know. "What deity did we sufficiently annoy that we have to suffer this sort of plague? Nothing human could have visited this calamity upon us."

"I tried all those excuses, and a few more besides." Don tossed the file onto his desk. It landed with a far too heavy thump. "If anyone asks, David, you haven't seen your sister in over a year."

"I saw her last week, boss."

"Oh. Maybe that's why that lie didn't work." Don got serious. "Preliminaries, guys. Dig into the file. Rivera is a traditionalist, likes the good old standby of cocaine. Easy to get, easy to cut, and easy to sell for a big profit even when you count the percentage the local dealers get. Our Mexican counterparts tell us that Rivera's people appear on the Mexican side of the California border and then they disappear until their runners appear on L.A.'s streets. Some of the stuff the Border Patrol has been getting suggests that our cousins in Frisco are getting about half of what moves in and out of L.A., and the rest is distributed to the cokeheads right here. Don Juan keeps himself clean; we've never been able to nail him with any of the coke or any real links to it. He puts several layers between the runners and dealers and himself, lets his lieutenants do the dirty work while he sits back and romances whatever lady takes his fancy."

"Hence his nickname," Megan murmured. "How original." She flipped open the file. An eight by ten glossy of handsome middle-aged Hispanic stared out at her, perfect white teeth gleaming. It looked more like a Hollywood casting agent photo than a mug shot. "Is that hair for real?"

"Only his hairdresser," David said under his breath. "Look at this: he's got a place in the mountains, the High Desert. Anybody try staking it out?"

"Right here," Colby replied, looking at another chunk of file. "Says they tried three months ago, and came up with nothing. Phone taps, likewise. Somebody tried to suggest that he had a plant feeding him information from the Patrol but nothing ever came of it."

"Here, this is something." Don picked up a slender section. "One of the suspects apparently tried to rip Don Juan off but got picked up by our side before Don Juan could take him out. Said that there's a safe house somewhere in L.A., inside the city limits, where the mules drop the stuff. It then gets divided and dispersed through most of the usual routes."

"And—?" Megan prodded.

"That's all."

"That's it? Nothing more? Didn't they question the suspect any more?"

Don frowned. "Couldn't."

"Because?"

"Dead. Jailhouse rumble. The suspect got taken out before they could talk to him again. Dead end, literally."

"Why does that not sound like a coincidence?" Colby grumbled. "Anything else? That's a pretty thick file."

"They're working on fifty ways to say 'I failed'," David said, perusing his section of the tome.

Don leaned back in his chair, pushing his hair back over his forehead, discouraged before they'd even started. "Okay, let's split up. David, Colby, you two hit up the Border Patrol. Find out what didn't get into the report: the guesses, the unsubstantiated rumors; you know the drill. Megan, your job is Don Juan himself. I want the book on him, everything we ever wanted to know about him but were too disgusted to ask. I'm hoping that you'll come up with a disgruntled employee that we can persuade to go into a Witness Protection Program, maybe a former girlfriend or some such."

"And you?"

"Me?" Don grinned, the smile not making it to his eyes. "Me, I'm going to hit the streets." He paused. "Hard."

* * *

_All right; what do I call her?_

_A colleague; I call her by her first name. An older woman that my father would like to date: I start with formality. But then I sound stuffy. Or make her sound old. Or—_

Dr. Maria Elena del Castillo stuck out her hand. "Dr. Eppes. I've seen you around campus but have never had the opportunity to speak with you. A pleasure to meet you. Call me Elena. Everyone does. Except for a few students who think working hard is not part of their immediate future."

"Charlie." Charlie took her hand gratefully. _One hurdle crossed_. "I understand you've hired my father to help you with a project? It sounds interesting."

"'Interesting' is one way to put it," Elena said grimly, sobering. Older, sure, but Dr. del Castillo was definitely an attractive woman. An inch or two shorter than Charlie himself, dark hair and warm brown eyes to match. She'd dressed in sensible pants and flats with a blazer, something that running around in an abandoned estate wouldn't ruin. No ring on her finger, either, Charlie noted. _Way to go, Dad_. "I wish you could have seen King Street twenty years ago. '_Calle de Los Reyes'_ we used to call it. People weren't rich, but we cherished what we had and we were happy." She sighed. "Now the place is overgrown with weeds, and people are afraid to go out at night." The next expression contained more than a sigh; it contained grim anger. "One of the people that I grew up there let me know that a gang has started cock-fighting matches on my grandfather's old estate. Yes, I think it's time that I put an end to that sort of amusement." She looked around. "Your father _is_ coming with us? I'd like to get over there and back before the sun goes down."

As if summoned, Alan Eppes appeared at the door, bustling out to the car, notebook in hand. "Hi, Elena. I see you've met Charlie already. You sure you've never met him before? I didn't think that CalSci was that big. Get in the car, people; I'll drive."

"I'm sure we've run across each other at some point, but the Sociology department doesn't exactly have much in common with math, Dad."

"Actually, Charlie, you may not believe this, but it's because of you that I called your father," Elena mentioned. "You remember Raul, from Maintenance?" The roads ambled by, turning from upscale L.A. to a part of the city that showed a lot less care and upkeep.

Charlie's face froze. "Yes," he lied. He tried not to think about how often the men and women from Maintenance had scolded him for the mess he invariably left in his office. _No, my office does not look like that trash heap on the corner we just turned on_.

"We got to talking, I mentioned that I needed someone to help me with this project and he let me know that your father was a city planner. A few phones calls later, and I'm on the road to restoring the old neighborhood." Elena gestured toward an overgrown tall fence. "We're here. You can pull over onto the side. I don't think we'll be able to get the gate open wide enough for the car."

"Is the car going to be all right?" Charlie looked around nervously. Both his father and Elena had been entirely too accurate in their assessment of the neighborhood. They were going to be lucky to walk back out to an intact car once they were finished. That the hubcaps would be gone was a foregone conclusion. Graffiti covered the brick walls of the surrounding buildings, and the dirt in the gutters couldn't be seen under the weeds growing there. A flock of chickens clucked behind the low fence of a house down the street. One of those birds had a very real possibility of turning into Sunday dinner, Charlie thought uncomfortably. Which one? The white one or the brown one? Maybe the speckled chick, plucking at its feathers?

"It'll be fine." Elena called to a few youngsters shooting hoops with more enthusiasm than accuracy. There was a rapid fire exchange of Spanish, and she turned back. "They'll keep an eye on it."

"Should we give them some money?" Charlie asked uncertainly.

"Not yet. Wait until they do the job. They'll do fine," Elena reassured him. "Carlos' mother is a friend of mine. We grew up together. I'd like for Carlos to be able to swim in the same swimming pool that Nina and I did," she added wistfully.

"We'll see if we can't make that dream a reality," Alan told her.

No matter what, it would take a lot of time and effort. Even Charlie could see that, and he was no expert on rehabbing old properties. The estate was large, especially by current Los Angeles standards. Elena could probably sell the property and be a millionaire several times over even in this neighborhood, he reflected. Bulldoze the place down and build some expensive condominiums.

Not the plan. Alan and Elena began to make notes and sketches, Charlie as always amazed at his father's skill at drawing. 'Have to be able to describe it' was how his father put it, pulling out a measuring tape.

Charlie himself wandered around the grounds, admiring what used to be. The weeds had overgrown everything, vines wrestling the azalea bushes into the dirt. The trees had managed to remain intact but only through their tall access to the sunlight. The estate was surrounded by a thick brick wall that had been whitewashed many times throughout the decades but none at all, it seemed, during the last five years. Paint chips flaked away, revealing reddish brown mud dried into an adobe cement equivalent.

The back lawn was immense; Charlie had a hard time believing that such a large parcel of land still existed in Los Angeles, untouched by land tycoons. Elena was truly sitting on a property worth millions. The pool had long since been drained of water, a mottled blue bottom covered with dirt and chips where the lining had been pushed up by the roots of the palm trees growing around the edges. Birds chirped gleefully at him, daring him to clear away the undergrowth that they lived in. One of the cabanas, soiled copies of the pristine ones in his father's model, had collapsed several years ago. Charlie resolved not to attack that edifice without a heavy set of gloves and solid boots against the new residents of the reptilian and insectoid persuasion who would doubtless object to Charlie's attempts at renovation. A bulldozer wouldn't be out of line.

The house itself had been beautiful. Built along the lines of a Spanish hacienda, the red roof cascaded down a gentle slope to drip water into barrels now overturned and dumping the meager moisture onto the dusty ground. Adobe walls pushed back the heat with windows carefully positioned to take advantage of the breeze from the Pacific Ocean when available. Most of the house was a single story, but on one end it rose to two levels with a bell tower perched on top of that. Charlie couldn't see any bell in that tower; he supposed it too was long gone, the remnants of a more gracious era.

He could see why Elena—and his father, to be honest—would want to restore this gem. Anyone could arrange for condominiums, and that would probably raise the standard of living in this run down neighborhood to the point where the original inhabitants couldn't afford to live here any more. But turn this place into a community center, and all of L.A. would benefit. Most of the people living here grew vegetables in their back yard; selling those would add needed pennies to the family coffers. It wouldn't be hard to arrange for some of the eastern California farmers to drive some produce here every few days, either. A place for meetings, for teens to hang out instead of joining gangs; Charlie approved. A day care center would probably be welcome.

"C'mon, Charlie," his father called. "We're going to check out the inside."

Charlie obediently followed them in, helping Alan to wrench open the door that was already half off of its hinges. Elena winced at the sound of metal tearing out of the wall. "This used to be so beautiful," she said, running a finger along the carving in the wooden door. An artisan had spent many hours creating that door, it was clear. "I can't believe how run down it has become in so few years. My grandfather would be ashamed."

Alan set the heavy door against the wall with a certain reverence. "This is something that we'll try to salvage," was his only comment. "I'm sure there'll be more treasures inside. Watch your step; some of the floor may be rotting through."

It was. They circled around a hole in the floor of the entryway: the heavy fountain that originally greeted visitors had found a new home in the basement. Alan leaned over to look. He tightened his lips. "That's a loss. Sorry, Elena."

"There was a better one in bronze out back," she said. "Maybe we can move that forward."

Maybe. Charlie didn't remember seeing it, wondered if the bronze fountain hadn't been carried off by someone desperate for money.

"Hey, what's this?" His father's voice drew him back to reality. "Someone been camping out here?"

'This' was the remnants of dirty dishes and leftover food tossed into the sink. The kitchen in the back of the house was a mess, and the mess had been created recently. The trio followed the trail and found that not only had Goldilocks been using the kitchen, but had tried out three of the bedrooms upstairs. The rooms had been left unattended when Elena's grandfather had been unceremoniously hauled off to the hospital before moving in with Elena, and no one had bothered to return to close the house down. The bed linens had been shredded by small animals, but that hadn't stopped the people who had invaded. It was a bed, and it was softer than anything they'd used in a long time, and cleanliness was not part of their mindset. Yet another thing to be cleaned up.

"Step one: salvage," Alan decided. "We'll rent some storage space to store anything worth keeping. How about the furniture, Elena? Did you want to try to keep any of that?"

Elena shook her head. "I took what I wanted when _Abuelito_—my grandfather—moved in with me. The rest is nice, but let's use it to start funding the community center."

Alan nodded. "I'll get an antiques expert in to evaluate everything for potential. I don't know a lot about this, but some of it looks pretty valuable on the open market." He glanced around. "We'd better get going; the sun is going down. Elena, I'll come back in the morning and get started. You have class?"

"In the morning," she confirmed, "but I'm free tomorrow afternoon. I'll come back then?"

"It's a date." Alan smiled. Charlie carefully ignored the line. _Three's a crowd_, he thought. _Do you really want me here, Dad?_

It took only seconds for that answer to turn into an unequivocal and resounding _yes_.

"Lose your way, gringo?" an unfamiliar voice asked. Several sniggers accompanied the question.

They were adolescents, but the dangerous type. Charlie rarely encountered toughs like these; these were kids who didn't cherish education, didn't see it as a way up and out of the _barrio_. Going to CalSci was out of their reach. None were even as tall as he but that didn't matter. What did matter was that the group, as a whole, had put in as much time building muscles in their arms as he had building his own mental muscle with numbers. Bandannas, chains, and torn jeans: that aptly summed up this group. And there were six of them. And only two Eppes. _Is that a knife I see on that kid's belt? I thought carrying those things in the open was illegal. Like that matters_.

And one Maria Elena del Castillo. She cocked her head. "Rodolfo?"

The kid in front narrowed his eyes. His voice was openly insolent. "Do I know you, _chica_?"

"I should hope so, Rodolfo. Your mother and I grew up together. Tell me, your sister Teresa; is she still in school, I hope? Getting her degree in teaching?" There was a little more in Elena's words than mere pleasantries. There was a hint of steel. There was a hint of _do I need to have a conversation with your mother, young man?_ Despite the fact that this was almost a man.

Rodolfo's eyes fell. His face froze. No more fun with the gringo's. This was someone that was part of his family, part of the _barrio_, someone that he'd need to treat politely if he didn't want to get grounded at seventeen. He went from swaggering gang member to nervous kid in seconds, taking the rest of the kids with him. He scuffed his foot in the dirt on the floor. "She finishes this May, Dr. Elena. The public school district has already offered her a job."

"That's good to hear, Rodolfo," Elena said primly. "And your mother? Doing well, I hope?"

"Yes, Dr. Elena."

"Good. And you? Studying hard?" _Staying in school, as your mother told you to?_

"Yes, Dr. Elena." It was a lie, but it came hard.

Elena wasn't fooled, but she allowed it to pass. "Good. These are friends of mine: this is Mr. Eppes, and his son, Dr. Eppes. They're here to help me look at Grandfather's old estate. I'm thinking to turn it into a community center." She paused artfully. "I'm also thinking that there might be some good money in it for weekend and after school work, helping to get this place back in shape. Know anyone around who might be interested in some honest work making honest _dinero_?"

"Maybe." Rodolfo wouldn't meet her eyes, but several of the kids behind him murmured to each other, nudging shoulders.

Alan picked up the ball. "I'm going to need help moving some of this stuff into storage. I'll need some muscle, and frankly, boys, I'd like to see if I can cut a deal with some of the grant people. Offering jobs to locals such as yourselves will go a long way toward getting the money. I'll see that you get your fair share."

"Right. Minimum wage. Chump change for chumps," Rodolfo muttered.

"Get real," Alan told him. "I'm not asking you to flip burgers. You know how much moving men make? They ain't cheap, let me tell you."

More nudging from behind Rodolfo. "We can do this, man," one hissed. "Might be fun," muttered another. "Safer," came from another.

Alan upped the ante. "I'll throw in pizza on Saturday. You boys know a place that delivers around here?"

Deal made: signed, sealed, and delivered with the pizza.

* * *

"Dammit, don't run!" Don snarled.

His target apparently believed that complying with the FBI agent's heartfelt request was not in his best interests. One look, and the man jack-rabbited off around the nearest corner, dust flying.

"Go! Go!" Don yelled at the tagalongs he'd brought, just in case. "West on Covina!" Don himself broke into a flat out run. _Don't need this part of my work out today_, he thought. _Remember, keep the hands intact. Gotta remember the Director's 'friendly' little baseball game_.

His wind came easily, and Don allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Endurance wasn't going to be an issue. _Little bit of sprinting here, let's pretend that I've got to beat the ball to first base._ He put on a burst of speed, just enough to corner the suspect in the alley. "Gotcha!" He hauled the man off of the chain link fence, preventing the snitch from crawling over and escaping into the night. He slammed him against the wall. "Spread 'em, Turk. Why'd you run? I just want a little friendly conversation." He patted the man down, checking for concealed weapons.

Found 'em, too. Don pulled a revolver from Turk's belt. "Why, Turk! What do you need this for? Are you into something that I don't know about? And isn't this a parole violation? Naughty, naughty."

Turk's reply was unprintable. And non-verbal. And ugly. Fists came up.

_Watch the hands, watch the hands! Can't break a finger now_. Don blocked. _Where's my back up?_ Blocked again, Turk's blow stinging against his forearms. "Mulligan!" he yelled, calling for the agents around back. "Miranda!" _Director D'Angelo's gonna kill me if I break a finger and that damn game only a week away_. "Mulligan!"

Enough of this. _He's gonna break my ribs, let alone my fingers_. Don moved in. Block, return strike. It landed, Turk surprised that Don was finally fighting back. Another parry; block, grab the wrist and twist.

Turk yowled. Don turned the man's arm around, wrapping it behind Turk's back and effectively immobilizing the man. He slammed him against the brick wall of the alley to quiet him. "Settle down!" he scolded. "All I wanted was a nice little chat. Now I'll have to bring you in for assaulting an officer of the law."

More unprintable verbiage, in more than one language.

Mulligan and Miranda puffed up, guns drawn, eyes scanning and assessing for more threats.

"What kept you?" Don wanted to add a few more choice terms to the tagalongs. _Not in front of guests, Eppes._

"Alleyway was blocked in the back," Mulligan replied, annoyed, glaring at Turk as if the suspect were personally responsible for the delay. "Had to climb over."

"Whatever." Don turned his attention back to his prey. "You don't seem to eager to talk to me, Turk."

"You been hassling everybody, Eppes." Turk spat. The wad landed carefully on the ground; not, Don noted, on his shoes. Good. That meant that Turk was scared, and ready to cooperate. Didn't want to piss off the FBI agents, just had to make it look good for anyone who might be watching.

"And you figured it was just a matter of time before I got around to you." Which was pretty close to the truth. Don squeezed a little tighter, put pressure on the arm shoved up behind Turk's back. The yelp that Turk let out sounded a little forced, a little over the top for what Don was offering, reinforcing Don's suspicion that there were others watching from behind darkened windows. "So make it easy on yourself. Tell me what you know." And, almost as an after-thought, he added, "if it's good enough, I might even let you go."

"I don't know anything."

"Not the right answer." Don glanced over to Mulligan and Miranda. "Agent Mulligan, what outstanding warrants do we have on friend Turk?"

"Possession of an illegal firearm," Mulligan recited obediently, well-primed by Don from earlier. "Resisting arrest. Wanted in connection with the hold-up of Century Bank on La Cienega and—"

"I had nothing to do with that!"

"Convince me," Don said into Turk's ear. He kept his tone mild, almost amused. "Talk to me about Don Juan Rivera."

"He'll kill me, man!" This time Turk really did sound scared.

"Not if he can't find you."

"He can find anybody!"

"It'll be even easier for him to find you in the joint," Don pointed out. "Isn't that how that last informant died? While he was locked up?"

Turk tried to look around, a tough proposition with his cheek hugging the cold brick wall. "What do you want, man?"

"Just tell me about Rivera, Turk. Where he is, how he runs the stuff in and out of L.A. Don't worry, he won't know that it's you," Don told the man. "I've been questioning lots of people. It could have come from anyone of you. He can't kill you all."

"Wanna bet, man?"

"Where's the central location, the drop off spot when it comes in?" Don pushed.

"Somewhere in L.A."

"L.A.'s a big city. Try narrowing it down."

"He'll kill me!"

"I'll lock you up and let him do it," Don assured him. "Great big bull's eye on your back. I'll put the word out that you spilled the whole deal unless you talk to me. Where?"

"Don't got no address."

_Yes!_ "Try a general location."

"Calle de los Reyes," Turk whispered. "East L.A. Big place. Lots of action."

"Then how come I haven't heard of it?"

"'Cause Don Juan keeps it clean," Turk said to the brick wall, his cheek smashed up against it, keeping it looking good. "He puts 'em up there for a night or two, then sends 'em up north. He sends a car for them, checks them out before he passes them on."

Don frowned. "'Passes them on?' What do you mean, Turk?"

"He passes them on, man." Turk looked at Don as though he were crazy. "What, you thought Don Juan only did coke? How you think he got his name? He's dealing in _people_, man!"

"He's running a border-crossing operation." Don struggled to understand.

Turk laughed, a short bark of something less than amusement. "Man, he's a slave runner! The young ones, the girls and the boys, he separates them out, makes sure they're clean, and sells them to the highest bidder! The dirty ones, the ugly ones, they go to the streets until they're killed. Yeah, he runs a border operation, but it's not to help people cross the border. What, you didn't know that? How stupid are your people?"

_Good question_. This hadn't been in the Border Patrol's dossier. _Why not?_

Next step: call David and Colby.


	2. Charity 2

"Wow." Alan Eppes blew a heavy layer of dust off of the statue. The dust shimmered in the air and gradually settled onto the equally dusty chest of drawers in the master bedroom upstairs. Light streamed in through the broken window pane, the curtains that were supposed to hold back the sun now in tatters on the floor. "Your grandfather had some beautiful things. Are you sure you don't want to keep this?" He handled the marble figurine with something approaching reverence, admiring the smooth sheen before reluctantly wrapping it in bubble wrap and placing it into a strong box.

"We'll keep a few things, to remember the old days, but no, they don't really mean all that much to me," was Elena's reply. She looked around the room wistfully, clearly recalling happier times. "My grandfather gave me what I wanted to hang onto when he moved in with me."

Alan shrugged. "Your choice. Like I said, I'll have an appraiser look this stuff over. You're going to make some auctioneers very happy."

"Auctioneers?" Charlie asked. "I thought you were going to go the eBay route." He set down an old astrolabe, the metal still intact though grimy and covered with verdigris.

Alan shook his head. "That's for the little stuff. If I'm right, a lot of these things will fetch thousands, if not tens of thousands. We may not need grants to complete this project, although I'll probably apply for them, anyway. It'll give us some good exposure. Not everything's about money. Good will is important, too. We'll try to get the mayor in for the grand opening, as well as some community leaders." He turned to Elena. "Are we set up with those young hoods of yours? And are you certain that you can keep them under control?"

Elena grinned. "Feed 'em pizza. They'll snarl and wrestle with each other and you, but they'll come along."

Alan grunted. "Just like kids everywhere, I see."

"Hey," Charlie objected. "I hear a comment about my childhood in there."

"You were supposed to. Watch that thing by your foot. It may be valuable."

Charlie obediently picked it up with gloved hands. All of them were wearing gloves, not certain of which broken items would break the skin. "What's this?"

Elena peered at it, a blob of straw and sticks with a scrap of pink cloth. It looked primitive, more like something that a superstitious child would have put together out of mud and twigs. A rough face had been gouged out of bark. "I don't know. It doesn't look like anything that Grandfather had. He went for art pieces, especially some of the art deco style of the twenties, but not too much for native handiwork. That looks hand-made. And recent."

"Shall I keep it? Put it in the box?" Charlie peered doubtfully at the object in question.

Alan frowned. "I'd like to say no but I just don't know enough about primitive art to be sure. Frankly, it looks like a doll that some kid made." He sighed, making a command decision. "Wrap it up, and pack it away. I'll let the appraiser tell us to throw it away. Wrap it up good, Charlie, so that the bugs don't crawl out."

"Right." Charlie stifled a shudder and tacked the plastic sheeting around the item, laying it in the box beside him. He glanced around, and frowned. "You know, the dimensions aren't quite right."

"What's that?"

"The dimensions," Charlie mused, casting an eye over the room. "This room. Doesn't it look a little small in here?"

Elena glanced around, scowling. "It's the same size that it always was."

But Charlie shook his head. "There's something not right." His peering became more methodical, going from left to right, top to bottom, mentally judging the square footage.

Not enough. Charlie crossed to one corner of the room and began to pace off the distance, mentally calculating in his head. The frown became more pronounced.

"Charlie?"

The math professor held up a hand. "A moment." He finished pacing off both dimensions, and stretched up with his hand toward the tall ceiling to estimate the height. Then he settled back down, clearly dissatisfied.

"Charlie?" his father's voice held a hint of impatience.

"I need to go outside," Charlie mused. "Elena, you grew up in this house? You know all the nooks and crannies?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Any places that you haven't been? Some place that Dad and I haven't seen? An in-home office, perhaps? Some place that your grandfather liked to go to get away from the rest of the family?"

"No." Elena shook her head, dark curls flying. "Charlie, I know every inch of this place, and we've looked at it all. What is puzzling you?"

"Hang on." Charlie hustled down the stairs from the bedrooms that they'd been working in, avoiding the step that threatened to collapse altogether, and took himself outside through the front doors. He peered up at the bell tower on the top of the house, tilting his head and making rough estimates in his head. He then began a slow circuit around the house, his father and Dr. del Castillo in his wake and watching him with curiosity.

"Charlie—" Elena started to say.

Alan Eppes held up a hand, the motion reminiscent of his son's just moments earlier. "Not yet. I've seen him like this. He'll have an answer shortly. If you interrupt him, he'll only spout gibberish at you."

"It's not gibberish."

"Don't talk back to your father. Just finish the puzzle and tell us what you're finding."

Charlie grunted but whether annoyed at the response or pleased at being left alone, neither could tell. He carefully paced off the length and width of the house, stumbling over the underbrush that had grown up around the place and once waiting for a disgruntled ground squirrel to take its family to a place where they wouldn't be disturbed by the relentless onslaught of mathematics.

Alan and Elena watched him.

"Will he be done soon?"

"Hard to tell." Alan cocked his head. "He's heading around the back. If that's any indication, he's got a lot more to look at before he comes to any sensible conclusion. Shall we go back inside?"

"He might find something—"

"In which case, he'll come tell us about it," Alan interrupted. "I know him. He'll be at this a while. We might as well make ourselves useful inside. There's still a lot of stuff to be gone through and packed away."

Charlie never noticed that he'd lost his audience. Pacing off the distances wasn't the most accurate form of measurement, but it would do for his purposes. He continued to walk, and to look, storing the numbers on the whiteboard in his head. If he couldn't write the numbers down, his mind would do just fine.

* * *

Colby enjoyed getting out into the open. It was one of the things that had led him to this job, the chance to do something not behind a desk watching his backside expand. Colby was a man of action.

Like these people he was interviewing. There were three of them, all Border Patrol: tough rangy guys like the men he'd served with in the armed forces. They were dusty, having returned from a border sweep, ready to pack it in for the day. It was a toss up as to whether the dark shadows on the three chins were from five o'clock shadows or dirt.

One of them, Bart Morales, was answering Colby's question. "Rivera? Yeah, we know him. Chased his people just last night. They know the canyons as well as we do."

"Maybe better," Steve Wright chimed in, leaning against the SUV that he had driven up in. Colby had seen the rifle sitting casually on the seat beside the man, and had sniffed the air. The thing had been fired just an hour or so ago. Wright noticed his surreptitious actions. "Saw a band of 'em crossing about six miles from here. Tried to turn them back, but they disappeared into an arroyo and I lost 'em. Fired off a round to make 'em nervous, but we all know how well that works."

Colby nodded. "Lot of land to patrol."

"You said it," the third man, McNamera, said. "They're like ants. You can squash a bunch of them, but there's plenty more running to the picnic basket."

"Tell me about Rivera." Colby pushed to the main thrust of the discussion, tossing a glance at David who was on his cell phone with Don, off to the side and several feet away. The other agent was listening intently, the phone glued to his ear. Once David's eyes widened, as if in astonishment with a lift of the eyebrows. It piqued Colby's curiosity, but he forced himself back to the current line of questioning. David would bring what Don had told him when the time was right.

"What's to tell?" Wright said glumly. "Bastard's got more routes across the border than any of 'em. He's got three pick up points in Mexico, little shanty towns where he gets his people to meet. He loads his people up with coke or whatever crap he's selling this week, grabs a bunch of kids desperate to cross the border, and has his people guide them across. Once they're on this side, he's got a couple of vans waiting to cart 'em off to L.A. We've never been able to figure out how he hides the vans," Wright added glumly. "I mean, it's not like vans are the fastest vehicles out here in the desert."

"You'd think that we'd be able to pick 'em up better," Morales nodded.

"You ever catch any?"

"A few," McNamera allowed. "Chickenfeed, frankly. A small shipment here, a couple of illegals that we ship back as soon as we catch them. I'll be honest with you, Agent Granger: I'm getting discouraged. It's like Rivera knows where we are."

"And is laughing at us," Morales added. "Believe me, you'll be getting all the help we can give you."

"Glad to hear it." David Sinclair came up behind them, inserted himself into the conversation. "Tell me about the busts you've made."

"What, all three of 'em?" McNamera snorted. "Not much to tell. The first bust, we nabbed two guides, loaded with marijuana. Three old women; I think they work as maids in L.A., or did before we got 'em. We confiscated the weed, turned back the old ladies, and held the guides for a couple of days until we decided that they weren't going to give us any intel. We couldn't hold 'em any longer than that. Rivera's lawyers were screaming."

"How about the other two?" David pushed. Colby gave him a sharp look; what had Don told him just now? A few small busts shouldn't warrant that much attention.

Wright shrugged. "Pretty much the same. We got squat. Couple kilos of coke, couple of old men looking to work in the orange groves around L.A. And the two guides, like before, weren't talking. I think one of them was the same guy each time."

"But that was it? A kilo or two, a couple of old people? Doesn't sound like anything worth Rivera's while," David mused.

McNamera scuffed at the ground. "What can I say? That's what we came up with. You think you can pull in more, be my guest. Rivera's sharp. He's been pushing people and drugs through this part of the border for years. And laughing at us."

"You ever get to see those caravans from a distance? Binoculars, I mean? How many people does he usually push through?"

Morales frowned. "Usually a lot more. When I look at the Mexican side, when I spot them, he's usually got a group of thirty of more in those shanty towns."

David nodded, as though something had been confirmed. "Able to tell anything about them?"

"Like what?"

"Men, women, old, young. Whatever." David's words were carefully casual, but Colby could see the studied lines.

Wright thought for a moment. "Nope. Too far away."

But Morales disagreed. "I wouldn't want to swear to it, but I'd say that most of them were female. And young. They were moving too quick to be old." He laughed shortly. "I guess Rivera takes more care with his bigger groups. Wouldn't want to lose all that money."

David gave a tight little smile. "No, guess he wouldn't." He moved on. "Hey, show me on the map the routes that his people like to take. If it comes to an all out war, I'd like to know how many men it's going to take to cover all the bolt holes." He pulled out the large area map from his vehicle. "And if you can figure out how to fold this damn thing back up, you're a better man than me."

* * *

"I can confirm the white slavery angle," Megan said, grabbing the most comfortable chair in the office before any of the others could confiscate it. "Only it's not just young girls. Rivera will sell both women and men to a cadre of high bidders. A few end up on the streets but most of them go to private homes both in and out of the country."

"Good businessman," David grouched. "Diversification in the underworld. He's not only into drugs, but he does border crossings and white slavery. Takes their money, brings 'em across, then kidnaps them. Anything else?"

"Actually, yes," Megan told him. "Those women who aren't pretty enough or young enough to sell, he keeps in a few small houses and runs a brisk house-cleaning service. I understand that the women he 'employs' are really very good."

Don took note. "All of 'em registered with Immigration? Paying their taxes? Maybe we can get him on tax evasion. Look what it did for Capone."

Megan grimaced. "I thought of that, too, and ran a check. No, Mr. Rivera is an honest, tax-paying citizen. Pays every penny on his stated income, laundered through his domestic cleaning service. Got his citizenship papers about ten years ago. Took the oath and everything." The sarcasm flowed heavily.

"God bless America," Don grunted. "What do we got, team?"

Megan looked David. David looked at Colby. Colby looked at Megan.

Don grimaced. "Just what I thought. Nothing. All right, guys, we gotta take this guy down. Any suggestions?"

Megan looked at David. David looked at Colby. Colby looked at Megan.

"I'll take that as a bright and shining 'no'." Don tossed the thick file onto his desk. "Okay, let's recap, just so I can pretend we're making progress. On the Mexican side of the border, Rivera recruits people who want to cross into this country. They're young and attractive, or Rivera thinks he can pretty 'em up enough to be worth something. He loads them up with drugs in their packs, smuggles them and the drugs across the border and drives 'em into L.A. in vans. He hides them somewhere in L.A. while he downloads the drugs, then sells those poor unsuspecting slobs into slavery. He keeps Border Patrol happy by tossing them a bone every now again, a small shipment of worthless drugs and people to make it seem like they're doing their job. I got it about right?"

Three frowns told him yes.

Don sighed. "Okay, let's start making things happen, people. Let's rattle a few cages. Hit the streets; squeeze your sources. Take plenty of back up and don't get yourselves into situations. I want information, not dead bodies; ours or theirs. Rivera has a reputation for hitting hard, and I don't want to turn this into a murder investigation if I don't have to. Go." He grimaced. "And don't wait for me. I've got baseball practice with Area Director Coach D'Angelo."

* * *

"C'mon, Charlie," his father urged. "It's getting dark. Let's go. You can do this another day."

"It's not adding up," Charlie insisted. He stared at the hacienda, eyebrows beetling, trying to pierce its secrets through vision alone. "Look, I know this isn't the most accurate of measurement processes, but the outside dimensions of this building aren't consistent with the inside. I just need a little more time, and I can figure out what's going on."

"Charlie, I've got the blueprints," Alan Eppes argued. "You can get your accurate measurements there. I don't see what you're concerned over. And it's getting dark," he added, looking at his watch. "Charlie, it's time to go home."

"You can come back another time," Elena del Castillo told him. "Believe me, any help you'd like to give would be very much appreciated. I can already see the glory that this place is going to become," she mused. "But your father is right. I may have some influence in this neighborhood, but even I wouldn't be out walking this street after dark. Not now. Another year or so, once we've gotten this community center up and running, then I will. But not now."

"But—"

"Charlie," his father said warningly.

It didn't seem to matter how many years it had been: Alan Eppes always had the last word. Charlie had lived on his own for many years, had been a legal adult for over a decade, and when it came right down to it, it didn't make a difference. Maybe it was the tone of voice, maybe the posture, maybe some indefinable something, but when Alan Eppes spoke, his sons listened. Both of them. Even Don, who had been on his own for far longer than Charlie and had had a more independent—maybe _self-dependent_ was the term he was looking for—life.

And it didn't help that Mr. Eppes was right. It was getting dark, and with no electricity to power any lights the dubious accuracy of Charlie's measurements, inside and out, would plummet.

And he _could_ come back another day. There was still plenty of work left to be done and more. The three of them had packed up literally dozens of treasures that Elena's grandfather had collected over time. Some of them were safely tucked into the trunk of the car for transport to the appraiser that Alan knew. That would form the balance of the funds needed to transform the hacienda into the community center. Already the neighborhood was talking about it. A few people had dropped by, had chatted with Elena in Spanish, some with Charlie and Alan in broken and heavily accented English. Some had stood off to the side, eying them with suspicion.

_Patience was a virtue_. That had been one of his mother's favorite sayings, whenever Charlie was frustrated with the slow pace of this person or that. Usually it had been a math teacher in school who simply couldn't keep up with Charlie, sometimes even one of those math tutors. More often it had been with himself; his intellectual self racing ahead of his maturity, wanting the privileges of advanced age that he felt he should have had. If he could act like a kid in high school, why couldn't he have those advantages?

_Make haste slowly_ usually followed. Another cliché that his mother liked to use. And she would demonstrate with a deft run of notes on the piano. A properly executed trill sounded faster than a badly timed and furiously played phrase. _Listen to me, Charlie_. _See how quick it sounds when played slowly but evenly? Proper tempo in all things, my son. Listen carefully._

_Well, I'm listening now, Mom. And missing you_. Charlie allowed himself to be led out to the car, helping to pile in the last crates that they had packed and stuffing himself into the back seat next to them. The crates smelled of wood, dusty with a hint of dirt picked up at the hacienda. He sighed, glancing yet again at the bell tower stretching into the darkening sky. "Tomorrow?"

"Sorry," his father said. "Tomorrow I've got an appointment with Caroline Becker, the appraiser. She's doing this as a favor to me, cutting her usual fee in half. I have to move fast, before she changes her mind."

"And I've got class all day," Dr. del Castillo said with a rueful smile. "Freshman Soc in the morning, and a graduate seminar in the afternoon. We can get out here the day after. That's a Saturday, and neither of us have any classes. We can get a lot done, and the neighborhood will pitch in."

"Even Don talked about helping out, although he warned me that he's got a case that's taking up a lot of time," Alan said, putting the car through a turn. "If we're lucky, Elena, you might even get to meet my other son sometime this month."

"He's the FBI agent," Elena mused. "He's the one that you work with, Charlie?"

"That's right. Let's just say that he's become a believer in the power of numbers."

Elena frowned. "I thought the FBI had their own ballistics experts. What do you do for them?"

Alan groaned. "You had to get him started, didn't you?"

It was a toss up which made more noise: the car engine, or Charlie.

* * *

"_Senora_!" David called. "_Senora Colon!_ _Momentito, por favor_!"

It only spurred the woman to greater speed. She gathered her dark skirt up, trying to dash to the bus stop. She cast a terrified look behind her at the FBI agents.

Points for effort, but deduct them again for foolishness. Getting to the bus stop would do her no good; the bus was still five minutes away. There weren't even any other potential passengers to glare at the agents chasing down the poor woman. She huddled under the tree that provided meager shade in the L.A. sunshine, babbling in Spanish.

David couldn't keep up. "_Senora_, _por_ _favor_! We aren't here to arrest you. We only want to ask you some questions. _Por_ _favor, hable Engles_."

"My green card." Senora Colon fumbled in her handbag. "I have it. I'm legal. You can't arrest me."

"We don't want to arrest you," Megan assured her, trying to project calm. "We just want to talk."

"You talk to Mr. Rivera. He'll tell you what you want to know."

_Don't I wish_. "How long have you worked for Mr. Rivera?" Megan asked, grateful that David had positioned himself on the woman's other side. There was no place to run.

"Many years. Many, many years. My green card." Senora Colon pushed the small square at David.

David barely glanced at it, before pushing it back at her. "As I said, senora, we aren't here to arrest you. We just want to ask you some questions."

"I can't answer them."

Megan ignored the woman's distress. "Tell me about Mr. Rivera."

The babbling started again. "He is a great man. He has helped many, many people! He gives us jobs, he gives us food." Her English broke down, and the words flowed profusely in Spanish.

David shook his head. "_Lente, senora, lente! No puedo comprenderse_."

Slowly they pieced out what they were after: Senora Colon lived in a small converted barn on the Rivera estate outside of L.A. along with several other women her own age. They were all 'employed' by Rivera as domestics, driven in to the pricier neighborhoods on a daily basis to 'earn' the meager salary that Rivera paid them. Rivera then charged the women 'room and board' from those salaries, making them live four to a room and giving them, if David understood her correctly, only minimal food to live on. The remainder of her earnings, Senora Colon explained proudly, was being sent back to her family in Central America to pay their way here. Soon her children would join her, as soon as she earned enough to pay the fare.

How long had she been working to do this?

A long time.

_How_ long?

Another flurry of Spanish, but it didn't contain either _meses_—months—or _anos_—years. It didn't even contain _semanas_: weeks. It did contain the oft-repeated promises that Mr. Rivera had made to her and to the other women that their children would soon arrive. And, to Megan's discerning ear, it also contained the fear that she was being lied to. It wasn't the Spanish that Megan was listening to, it was the body language that Megan was watching. Let David decipher what Senora Colon was saying in voluble Spanish. Megan was after the truth.

And the truth was that the woman was scared. Scared that Rivera was lying to her and to the others. Scared that she would never see her children again. Scared that she would be deported, that her family would never be allowed to live in this country where they could make better lives for themselves.

And scared that Megan and David were going to interfere. In Senora Colon's mind, she had one hope for happiness: that Mr. Rivera would make good on his promises to reunite her with her family in this country, and they would all live happily ever after when—not _if_, but _when_—she won the lottery. It was only a matter of patience.

Megan drew David aside. "Do we run her green card?" she asked under her breath. There was another question underneath her concern: _do we run her green card, find out that it's forged, and start the deportation process?_

David considered. It was the proper thing to do. It would be legal. But would it be the right thing? He lit gratefully on another excuse: "if we do that, Rivera will know that we're investigating him. It'll light up like a red flag."

By the look on Megan's face, she agreed with him. "Running the green card can wait," she said serenely.

"Certainly until after we find out the whole story."

"Absolutely. Who knows? We may find that Mrs. Colon wants to return to her country."

"We may even find that her green card is legit."

Neither one of them added the one thing they were both thinking: _when pigs fly_.

* * *

"Naughty, naughty." Colby confiscated the knife that the young man against the wall had been about to brandish—and use. He took a deep breath, replenishing oxygen after a short but fast chase. Sweat poured off of him, but the adrenaline wasn't finished. He made certain that his source was securely pinned against the dirty brick wall. No need to invite the kid to pull another knife, and Colby was more than sure that the kid had an ample supply on his person. "Carrying a concealed weapon? Judge won't like that."

"Pig!" The young man spat, but couldn't turn far enough to aim it in Colby's direction. He settled for a pungent description of Colby's heritage and probable after-life destination in gutter Spanish.

Colby grunted. "And I thought my grammar was bad. I'm positively erudite compared to you. Where'd you grow up?" He shoved a little harder on the arm lock that he had on the kid. "C'mon, Shark, make this easy on both of us. Don Juan Rivera. Where is his hang out?"

"I don't know. Let me go, pig! Police brutality!"

"I'm not the police, and somehow I suspect you know a little more than you're saying." Colby shoved a little harder. "Location, Shark. Or I'm going to pull a few teeth."

"Someplace in California."

"Wrong answer." Colby pushed again, rewarded by a yelp. "Aw, c'mon, Shark. It wasn't that bad. We're just getting started."

"Let go of me!"

"Sure, Shark. Right after you tell me where Rivera stashes those people that he drags over the border. And don't think I'm going to be satisfied with hearing 'L.A.' You're going to have to narrow it down a little bit further than that."

"I don't know!" The wail sounded insincere. The yelp that followed had more veracity. "Okay, okay! Ease up, man!"

"Talk."

"I don't have an exact address…"

Colby squeezed.

"Downtown neighborhood, man! Four blocks over from Fat Manny's! That's what I heard!"

"How many blocks?"

"Five! Maybe six. I don't know the exact address! Let go, man!"

"You ever been there?"

"No. You crazy, man? Rivera'd kill me if I went there. He thinks I work for Cool Dee."

Which was no more than the truth. It went along with what Colby already knew. Colby let Shark loose, watched the boy—almost a man—scurry off into the distance.

At least they had a smaller area to search.


	3. Charity 3

"What's going on, buddy? You seem distracted." Don had spread out the map on the table in the conference room, expecting his younger brother to jump on it with all of his usual enthusiasm for an FBI case. Charlie loved these cases, saw them as a chance to 'really make a difference'. As if teaching students wasn't also making a difference. As if coming up with Nobel-worthy theories wasn't also making a difference…he could go on, but the fact was that right now Charlie was here in the flesh but his mind was somewhere else.

"Sorry, Don. I am distracted." Charlie tried to focus his thoughts, determinedly pulling them away from his father's project. He couldn't do anything more on that end until he returned to Dr. del Castillo's old estate to take more measurements, and that wouldn't happen for another couple of days when everyone was free. He blinked, using the action to re-direct his thoughts. "Okay. You're trying to figure out the most likely route for these people to cross the border and get to L.A., right?"

"Right," Don confirmed, watching him anxiously. If there was ever a time he needed Charlie to work his magic, this was it. "Border Patrol identified sixteen different routes that the smugglers could use, and nine points where they think Rivera may have stashed his vans that he uses to transport everyone to L.A. There's no way I can requisition that many people to cover all that territory, buddy. You can figure this out, right? Tell me which way Rivera's gonna jump? I'm coming up blank, Charlie. I need to nail this guy with the goods."

"I can give you probabilities, Don," Charlie corrected. "I can't tell you absolutely for certain, but I can tell you which way he's most likely to move. Give me the information that you have, all of it. The routes, the towns that your suspect gathers his people in, the suspected hideouts for the vans, everything. I'll run it through a Diaspora Analysis."

"A what?"

One corner of Charlie's mouth quirked up. "My black box of mathematical magic."

"Oh." Relief. Charlie wasn't going to subject him to another lecture. Good. "'Cause I didn't know how I was going to ask for enough people to eyeball sixteen different ways of getting to L.A."

"One hundred and nineteen."

"Huh?"

"One hundred and nineteen," Charlie repeated gently. "According to your sources, there are sixteen routes across the border, and seven different possible locations for the vans that your suspect uses, so there are one hundred and twelve different paths to be watched prior to arriving at the vans you were talking about, and then another seven possible routes from the van locations to the central site in L.A."

"Right." The glazed look that was in Don's eyes was rapidly turning to fear.

"But even that wouldn't be a proper use of resources," Charlie told him gently. "Because there are only seven different van locations, some of your lookouts could cover more than one border crossing. Depending on my findings, you might only need fifty lookouts to cover everything."

The fear stayed. "But you can cut that down, right?"

"I can give you probabilities," Charlie again corrected. "I can tell you the most likely route, given the circumstances and given that I have adequate data to work with. I can't guarantee you success."

"Right. No guarantees," Don repeated. "Just do your best. Right, buddy?"

Charlie started to gather up the map and the files that contained the details he'd need. Then he paused. "Don, just how many agents do you have available to cover these routes? How many routes can you watch at a time?"

"How many routes?" Don smiled crookedly. There was no humor in his expression. "Two."

* * *

'Hyper-focused' they called it. 'Concentrating' was Charlie's own name; blotting out the rest of the world so that he could work. It came easily to him, had ever since he was a child.

It wasn't so much a matter of ignoring the world as it was simply overlooking the extraneous parts. That was why the headphones worked so well: the music faded into the background so that the important pieces—the numbers, the concepts—grew and evolved into what they were supposed to. That was the wonderful thing about numbers, the way they came out _right_ when they were manipulated properly. There was an immense satisfaction when the equation _worked_.

This was a difficult equation that Don had set him to. There were so many different variables, different pieces of the puzzle to consider. Some parts were easy: Rivera selected route A forty six percent of the time, and B twenty three percent, and so on, down the line of the sixteen different routes. Some of the variables were clear, and would eliminate some of the routes: if people gathered in Villa de las Flores, on the Mexican side of the border, then they could eliminate routes H, I, and J. If they gathered in San Marcos, then routes A, B, or M were most likely to be selected. And so on, and so on. Then there was the weather. And the routines of the Border Patrol, which almost always seemed to be watching the wrong route no matter what. And there was a period of time when the vans weren't at Location Three at all. Or when the arroyo along route J was flooded with water off of the mountains.

In other words: lots of data to crunch.

Charlie assigned weights to the various components, telling the computer to all but ignore the arroyo—a lot offlooding was expected for the next few months—and to pay strict attention to the Border Patrol schedules. There were other parts to weigh, things that several phone calls to Don added significance to—"How should I know how likely Rivera is to pay attention to the plants in bloom? Whether or not he has hay fever isn't in his file, Charlie!"—and increased the accuracy of the program he'd designed.

Done. Charlie leaned back in his chair, regarding the computer screen. The little hourglass was flickering, demanding the entirety of the computer's attention—something else to be hyper-focused—and Charlie knew that it would take a while for the computer to crunch all the data. More than a while; more like several hours. More like the rest of the day. He glanced at his watch: ten AM. He had the rest of the day to accomplish other tasks. Which one should he turn to? There were the rest of the tests to be graded, the ones that that graduate student hadn't done before going home sick. The fact that the tests were still there suggested that Mark was still sick in bed. Charlie wasn't surprised; the grad student had looked pretty wiped yesterday when Charlie had seen him. But the tests weren't due back to the students until after the week end, so there was plenty of time and Charlie had other things to do. There was that second draft of Maguire's Ph.D thesis to go through and, considering that Charlie had argued against offering Maguire admission to the program, Charlie was not looking forward to critiquing the work. From what he'd heard, Maguire had more than justified Charlie's poor opinion and the entire Math department was wishing that they'd listened to Charlie.

So, nothing on his desk that he particularly wanted to pick up. There was his own work, but there was something else that was begging for attention: the del Castillo estate. Those odd dimensions were still niggling at him, distracting him from other work. Charlie glanced at the computer once more; yup, the answers wouldn't be spit out until at least seven this evening and more likely closer to ten. He'd have plenty of time to go to the estate and back. Neither his father nor Elena del Castillo would be available—one was at the appraiser's and the other busy teaching—but that shouldn't matter. It was daylight. And he could take the bus. No use exposing a car to pilferage. It was daylight, so it should be safe. It was only after the sun went down that sensible people made sure to stay securely inside.

Decision made. Charlie stuffed a small pad of paper into his pocket and headed out.

The estate was exactly as he remembered it, only this time the outlines of the building mocked him. There was something wrong here, something _off_ about the numbers. They didn't add up correctly, but now Charlie thought he knew why. It was up to him to prove it.

He entered through the broken door, stepping carefully around the hole in the floor in the entryway. The boards creaked beneath his feet, but that didn't matter. The first floor wasn't where the problem was. He headed upstairs.

The second floor was the sleeping quarters for the house, all with windows to let the cool ocean breezes flow through. Never mind that only one out of three windows was still intact; that could be, and would be, repaired. No, what Charlie had in mind was a little more mundane.

He started by measuring the dimensions of each bedroom, each room located on the upper floor of the estate, noting the measurements on his pad of paper. It took him almost an hour, but the results were gratifying: there was a ten foot section of the house missing.

Well, obviously it wasn't really _missing_. Just mislaid. Hidden somewhere, actually. This got more interesting. Charlie felt his eagerness rise. It always did when there was a puzzle to be solved, and this was far better than any five thousand pieces of cardboard to put together. The question was: where was the missing room?

It wasn't elegant, but it got the job done: Charlie darted from room to room, taking sightings on the mangled landscape outside through the broken panes, estimating where each room was in relationship to the rest of the house.

He ended up in the master bedroom, the largest bedroom in the house and the one underneath the bell tower. They'd been up in the bell tower earlier; the bell had cracked a generation ago, Elena had told them, and never been replaced or recast. There hadn't been any need and even then the family finances were feeling the strain of the new economic situations. The entrance to the bell tower was a door that they'd all had to duck to get through; people had grown taller since the estate was built.

Charlie looked around the master bedroom, trying to figure out where the entrance to the missing room was. It was somewhere close; it had to be!

And it had to be along this wall, the southern end. His estimates using the outside weren't particularly precise, but they didn't need to be. He was after qualitative, not quantitative. He rapped his knuckles on the wooden panels and rewarded by a hollow sound _there_. He grinned to himself: _well-done, Abuelito_, he silently saluted Dr. del Castillo's grandfather. _Kept this secret to yourself_ _to the end_.

How to get in? This would be a pleasure to hand over to Elena. Then Charlie stopped short. No, he'd give this secret to his father, let his father tell Elena. After all, this was his father's project. It's what Alan Eppes had been hired to do, to renovate this estate. Charity or not, Charlie was just the consultant brought in by the master planner on the project. This would be his father's information to tell the client.

But first Charlie had to find the way into the hidden room, a way that preferably didn't involve axes or saws. For this room to remain hidden for so many years there had to be a secret entrance.

The bell tower steps, that had to be it. Charlie eased the door to the bell tower open, wincing at the creaks and moans that the door gave forth, hoping that the hinges weren't about to let go of the rotting wood. The upper hinge threatened, one screw actually coming loose and falling to the floor, but the rest stayed intact and Charlie was able to prop the door open.

He gingerly stepped inside the landing, testing the flooring so that he wouldn't end up in the parlor directly below. He rapped on the wall again, echo-locating the room behind.

But there was no entrance to the hidden room in the stairwell to the bell tower. The walls were plain and unadorned, the planks solid. Charlie rapped and prodded, twisted and turned everything he could discover, with no luck. He could feel the axe coming closer as the only means of entry.

Okay, if it wasn't in the bell tower, then where was it? Charlie took a step back, both mentally and figuratively, surveying the problem.

The room was there. The numbers proved it. The hollow sound to his rapping confirmed it. And where there was a room there was, logically, a door. Perhaps outside? Unlikely; there would have to be some means of ascending to this level and that would be too obvious for a hidden sanctuary. No, the entrance to the room had to be here. He was simply overlooking it.

Charlie began to look for a pattern, for a large enough square that would allow a body to pass through. It had to be roughly a meter square, if not larger—there! There, partially obscured by the free-standing closet that still held a couple of old and dusty black suits that had been the height of fashion half a century ago. The edges were cleverly concealed in the paneling, outlining a door barely large enough to admit Charlie himself.

No doorknob.

No problem. Charlie had seen many similar puzzles. He carefully pressed against a knothole here, another one there. This was completely random. There was nothing to guide him in one direction or another, and in cases like this the only sensible way was to simply try one combination after another until—

Click.

_Yes!_ The paneling slid back the barest half inch, and a rush of moldy and stale air seeped out. Charlie put his shoulder to the panel and urged it open further. Dust cascaded down over him.

It didn't matter. What was important was seeing inside a room that hadn't seen the light of day for who knew how many years.

It was hard to see. There was no light, no windows. But Charlie could make out a comfortable easy chair, several bookcases, and a small table with an overlarge ashtray on it. An ancient, half-smoked cigar lay on the edge of the ashtray, its owner clearly interrupted. A newspaper sat yellowing beside it with a tall lamp that would plug into some long dead outlet. Charlie started forward, intending to explore.

No. This was Elena's house, and her history. This was for her to explore, to remember her grandfather, to cherish her heritage. Charlie stepped back. Next step: contact his father, so that he could bring the news to his client.

He pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open. A blank screen greeted him. What—? He tabbed the power switch. Nothing. And with a grimace, he recalled the electronic toy telling him just two days ago, or was it three, that it needed feeding. Never mind. He'd tell his father as soon as he got back to his office that the mystery of the irregular house dimensions was solved. He started for the steps, intending to head out and back to CalSci. And intending to plug his phone into its charger.

A noise stopped him. Not just a noise—voices. Angry voices, speaking in Spanish. Charlie couldn't tell what they were saying, but the meaning was clear: someone was displeased. Several someones were displeased, and they were taking their wrath out on several someone elses. A slap, and a cry followed it. A blow, and someone crashed into a piece of furniture. Charlie could hear the beating taking place. He stumbled backward, knocking over a small table in the corner. It clattered loudly to the floor.

"_Escuche!_" Listen!

Silence struck. Charlie froze.

"_Quien_ _esta alli?_" Who is there?

No place to hide. Charlie breathed through his mouth, striving for lack of sound. Anything to escape notice. The only way out was down the stairs past the intruders, or jump out through a broken window. Neither seemed likely to succeed, and the chance that the trespassers would be pleased to see him was also remote. Not in this neighborhood. Not in this abandoned house.

"Rafael, _vaya_." Charlie heard a heavy footstep on the stairs, knew that someone had just been told to check out the noise he'd made. _Not good_. He cast a desperate glance around, hunting for a way out of this mess.

It was obvious: _Abuelito's_ hidden study. If it had remained secret for all these years, it could remain secret a little longer. Charlie slipped inside, cursing the creaking floor boards, and slid the door shut. It clicked into place, closing out all of the light. Charlie was plunged into darkness.

It didn't matter. He kept his ear to the wall, listening to Rafael making his way through the bedrooms, searching for the perpetrator of the sound.

It took forever. Charlie held his breath as Rafael entered the master bedroom, not daring to breathe in case the man had good hearing, only letting the air out when Rafael's footsteps trailed off back down the main staircase.

"_Nadie_, Rodolfo." Nobody.

"_Bueno_. _Ven_ _aca_." Come back.

Charlie listened to the footsteps returning down the staircase, heard the man jump over the steps that were trying to collapse under the weight of man and age. He heard the group murmur, heard more commands. He heard voices grow louder and demanding.

Then more slappings. More cries. More angry voices. More punishment being doled out to some unlucky people. Charlie cringed, but there was nothing he could do except get himself caught and subjected to the same abuse.

Then silence.

Charlie waited a few minutes longer until he was certain that they, whoever they were, had left the house. It had been close. Those people hadn't belonged here, and wouldn't have taken kindly to Charlie's observations. His father had been right; not one of them should be here alone, even in broad daylight. Charlie should have waited for the others before returning to solve this mystery.

He'd learned his lesson, and lived through it. He'd get out of here as quickly as possible, tell his father about this room, and come back with the rest of them so that Elena could explore. Maybe they could persuade the police to stake the place out to wait for those gang types who had been downstairs. Maybe Don could exert some of his considerable influence to get the low lifes run out. Maybe, maybe.

Charlie pushed at the door to _Abuelito's_ study.

Nothing. The door didn't move.

Charlie pushed again, a little harder this time. Still it didn't budge.

It was dark in the study, and Charlie couldn't see, couldn't remember where the doorknob was. He felt around the wall, searching. A sinking feeling hit: he couldn't remember seeing a doorknob at all. Just as the outside had been, there was no doorknob on the inside.

Nothing. No doorknob. No knots in the door, no way to get out. No one to hear him bang on the walls.

_No way to get out_.

* * *

Best time of the day, was Alan Eppes' opinion. Mid-morning, newspaper in hand, coffee on the table and still fresh and hot. Couldn't be better. No kids around, not even grown-up kids. He finished the column, noting with mild annoyance that he'd have to go searching further back in the paper if he wanted to learn the conclusion of what happened to that crook that Don had hauled in to justice just three months ago. Why couldn't newspapers learn to keep a story decently in one place instead of spreading it all throughout the whole litany of pages? Of course, he could simply ask his son, but that would be cheating. Besides, if he didn't read the morning paper, who would keep the journalists in business?

Life didn't get much better. A leisurely cup of coffee, then he'd go wake his shaggy-haired son who wanted so badly to go back to the estate project to figure out whatever it was that he wanted to figure out. For a kid who was that eager, Charlie was sure sleeping late. Made sense, though; Charlie had worked to all hours of the night at CalSci. Probably had been working on the most recent case of Don's. Alan himself had gone to bed before his math professor son had come home. Charlie would have let himself in quietly and gone up to his room to tumble into bed.

Someone fumbled at the back door. Alan looked up. "Come on in; it's open."

More fumbling, then the knob twisted and Don entered, a bag of something fresh in his hand smelling of cinnamon. "You gotta get that door fixed," he complained by way of a greeting. "I think the pins in the lock are slipping. Where's Charlie?"

"Good morning to you, too, O eldest son of mine," Alan returned. He ruffled the paper. "What brings you out to see me on this glorious and sunshine-y day?"

Don grimaced. "Charlie. He was supposed to call me yesterday evening. He's working on something for me."

"Another case, I presume?" As if they both didn't know.

"That's right."

"Can you share any of it with your old man?"

Don sighed. "A tough one. We've got drug smuggler who's diversifying the action. Not only does he smuggle drugs across the border, he gets illegals across as well."

"Two for one kind of operation."

"And that's not the half of it." Don plopped down onto one of the chairs and set the bag onto the table. He pulled a cinnamon bun out, fragrant and sticky, and bit into it before offering the bag to his father. "He then grabs the pretty ones, and sells them into white slavery. A real pillar of society type."

That raised his father's eyebrows. "I can see why you're so anxious to shut him down. And Charlie's end of it?"

Another sigh. "This guy has more than a dozen routes across the border. Border Patrol hasn't been able to lay a finger on him, so the Powers That Be have handed the case over to the FBI."

"In other words, you." Alan nodded in understanding.

"Right. I've got Charlie working on telling me which route this guy will take. Once we nab him in the act, he's finished." Don looked around. "Charlie's home, right?"

"Upstairs, sleeping. He got in late last night, after I went up. I don't know when he actually got in. Must have been late for him to be sleeping this long." Alan glanced at his watch. "Go wake him up."

"Me?"

"Either you or me. Charlie said that he wanted to go back to the del Castillo estate. If he doesn't get a move on, I'm leaving him behind."

"Can I dump water on him?" With a grin.

"Sure." And then added, as Don started to move toward the sink, "as long as _you_ clean it up."

The water stayed where it was. Don headed up the stairs to the bedrooms.

He passed his own old room, trying to keep himself from glancing in. It looked much as it did when he lived here, a few baseball posters still tacked to the wall with sticky stuff, a bunch of trophies collecting dust on a wooden shelf that he'd made himself in shop class. Bergermeister, that was the guy's name who taught that woodworking class. Always going on about safety and wearing safety goggles, taking off points whenever Don set the damn glasses down for a moment. He was one of the few teachers that gave Charlie a hard time, never thought Charlie would be anything worthwhile. Don he grudgingly allowed might do, since Don was into the manly sport of baseball in a serious way. Geeks, in Bergermeister's book, weren't worth much. Boy, had Charlie proved him wrong. And baseball had gone by the wayside.

Which reminded Don, he had practice with the pick up team this afternoon. He'd better get the magic numbers from Charlie so he could set up a surveillance team in the right spot for tonight. Too much stuff to cram into a single day. Maybe the surveillance could be postponed for a day?

Charlie's door was almost closed, a sliver of light shining through from the windowwhere the curtains never seemed to properly shade the sun out. Don used his knuckle to rap on the wooden door. "Charlie? You in there? Time to get up, buddy. You're going to miss the school bus."

Silence. Not even a grunt of _I heard you, now go away_. His brother must be sleeping hard. What time did the man get in last night? Must have been late, if he thought that it was too late to call Don with the results of his number crunching. "Yo, Charlie! C'mon. Up and at 'em." He pushed the door open.

The covers were rumpled—Charlie never could remember to straighten up—but there was no sleeping, tousle-haired man underneath them. Don glanced automatically around the small room, not seeing anyone.

He ambled back downstairs. "He's gone. Did he head back to CalSci already?"

Alan set the newspaper down, glancing at his watch. "If he did, then it was before I got up. Did you try him at school?"

"Hang on a sec." Don pulled out his cell and pushed the speed dial. Only Charlie's voicemail answered him. "Hey, Charlie, give me a call back ASAP, will ya? I need that data from you." He snapped the cell shut and stuffed it into his pocket. "Well, short of going down there and wringing it out of him, there's nothing more I can do."

"Maybe he needs more time," Alan suggested. "Maybe he hasn't worked it out yet. You know how he gets when he gets a problem into his head."

Don looked at his watch. He really did need that information from his brother. He considered. "I think I'll swing by his office, see what's cooking."

Alan ruffled the paper back in front of his nose. "If you see him, remind him that Elena and I will be working at the hacienda this afternoon, if he wants to join us."

Don nodded. "How's the project going?"

"Slow, but well. We're kind of holding off a lot of heavy duty labor until we can get the pieces in place to hire local help. Plus, we want to give the local thugs a chance to quietly move off of the place without any hassle."

"Local thugs?" Don's ears perked up. "Dad, is it safe there?"

"As safe as any place in L.A." Alan reassured him.

To Don, that was little better than saying 'we're waiting until the bullets stop flying to move into the line of fire.' "Maybe I want to have LAPD do a few patrols in the area?"

"Wouldn't hurt," Alan agreed, the paper between his face and his eldest. "Don't really know what's going on in there, and I figure the less I know, the better. I'd rather not rile people unnecessarily, if you know what I mean."

Unfortunately, Don did. This project was intended to improve the local neighborhood and the local economy, and it couldn't do that by incarcerating the teenagers who lived there. Gently moving them into an improved lifestyle would be more beneficial, as would encouraging the hard core gang members to move to a different section of town where they wouldn't get hassled. The whole process would take on a life of its own: without fear of bullets, people would start walking with heads held up high. They'd take jobs at the hacienda, earn better livings than menial wages; in short, they'd be aimed at the American Dream. "I'll put the word in the police chief's ear. They owe me some favors."

"Thanks," Alan said, meaning it. He set the newspaper down, too lazy at the moment to put it away. "Time to go. I'm picking up Dr. del Castillo, and heading over to the estate. Want to come, see the place?"

"Maybe later." Don looked at his watch again. Charlie hadn't called him back, not that Don had truly expected it. Not if Charlie was deep in thought. "I think I will check and see if Charlie's at his office. I really need those numbers. You think he's got class this morning?"

Alan considered. "Nope. His freshman calc class was yesterday; I remember him complaining about one girl who expected him to give her an 'A' on her test because she dyed her hair blonde." One corner of his mouth quirked up. "Things may have changed since my day, but not all that much."

Don grunted. "See you later, Dad."

* * *

Charlie froze. They were back! Angry voices, voices speaking in Spanish, were yelling at each other.

He couldn't tell what time it was—there were no windows, and he'd forgotten to wear his watch _again_—but it seemed like it was early morning, as in before daybreak type early morning.

More blows, more yelps of pain. Another cry, this one long and drawn out as though the torture was going on too long. Someone was angry, and someone else was paying the price. It wasn't hard to guess that calling out for help would not be the best way to live to grow old gracefully. Charlie kept his mouth shut.

Someone would come to rescue him. Someone would be here, and he could talk them through the process needed to open the hidden door. His father and Elena del Castillo would eventually arrive to work on the hacienda, and he could call out to them, tell them how to unlock the door.

The voices left, taking the sobbing and tortured voice with them. Charlie tried to curl up in the easy chair, tried to make himself as comfortable as possible. Tried to sleep. There was nothing else to do in the dark room.

Sleep wouldn't come.

* * *

"I can't stand this," Elena del Castillo announced, surveying the outside of the hacienda with displeasure. "Alan, I wish you could have seen this place when my grandfather was in good health. It was beautiful. The azaleas would bloom every year, the gardeners would water the annuals to keep the flowers coming. The birds nested in the bushes. That rose bush over there, the one climbing the trellis? A robin nested there every year. We were never certain if it was the same one, but we thought so. And we used to keep a feeder for the hummingbirds in that tree. It was my job to refill it with sugar water twice every week, every Wednesday and Saturday."

Alan smiled in understanding. "I take it this means that today's project is yanking out a few weeds."

Elena screwed up her face. "Would you mind? I know we ought to work at cleaning out the things inside, but…"

Alan grinned. "Hey, I may be the project manager, but you're the boss. And if the boss says we work outside, who am I to complain?" He gestured at the sunny sky. "I can't say that I disagree. As project manager, I can even come up with a good excuse." He struck a pose. "We soon will be coming to the point where we will be carrying out larger furniture items. For solid footing and safety, clearing away a significant walkway is imperative." He grinned again. "How was that?"

"Great," Elena told him, beaming. She slid her hands into some gloves and attacked the vines that were slowly crawling over the fallen trellis. "Where do we toss the trash?"

Alan glanced around. "The dumpster isn't scheduled to be delivered until Monday. How about putting everything over in that corner? We can transfer it to the dumpster when it gets here." He looked around. It was a weekday, and their potential employees were all back in school, thanks to a couple of calls by Dr. del Castillo. Alan himself was getting talked into holding some extra help classes in history and English, to be held in the parlor until the place took shape as a neighborhood center. Charlie, of course, would handle the math. Speaking of whom, where was his son? The way Charlie had acted the last time they were here, Alan would have sworn that the math professor would be chomping at the bit to get back.

Fickle, that's what Charlie was. The house problem one night, then let older brother Don come along with a new problem and Charlie was off and running on that one. Let Don deal with him for a bit.

* * *

Don's second stop on the CalSci campus was Professor Larry Fleinhardt's office, and he couldn't help but marvel how two such brilliant men could be so different and yet be such good friends. _Guess it's true what they say_, he mused. _Opposites attract_. Charlie's office could politely be described as making the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina look tidy, but Larry's office was more pristine than any professor that Don had ever known in four years as an undergrad and then his time at Quantico after that. Most of Dr. Fleinhardt's things were carefully shut away behind cupboard doors. The rest were…well, the best way to express the concept was _arranged_. Everything was in order. Everything was in place. The copious numbers of books weren't stacked according to an alphabetized listing of authors, but rather as to size and shape of the tome itself. The shelves and the cupboards where those books sat were of identical height and width and wood color. There were no holes or other marks on the walls, and everything was painted white. Even Dr. Fleinhardt's Ph.D diploma had been placed into a neat frame and was placed in the exact center of the white-washed wall above the symmetrical shelves. The desk was in what Don privately thought was the exact center of the room, and the throw rug that sat in front of the desk was completely square. Most throw rugs tended to wander, tended to migrate to either one side or the other, throwing off the symmetry of the room. Not this one. Even the pile of the carpet was brushed in the same direction: explicitly north.

Dr. Fleinhardt himself was seated behind his desk, pencil in hand, frowning as he marked the paper in front of him. His face brightened. "Don! A pleasure. What brings you here?" He indicated the less than stellar example of intellectual effort in front of him. "Tell me that you need my help instead of that of Charles, for a change. These inane freshmen attempts at retrieving the wisdom of the ages are trying my patience. I would welcome the respite."

Don winced. "You know I always value your advice, Larry."

"As do I yours, Don. What is your present dilemma?"

"Actually, I really was looking for Charlie," Don confessed before he could dig himself in too deep. "He was working on some equations for me. Calculating some routes. I was trying to find him, see if he'd finished it yet."

"Ah, yes. Charles mentioned it to me, told me that he had invoked the Diaspora Theorum. I quite approved, given the data that you presented him with. A small problem, quite solvable within the limits of the problem, although the results may not be as clear cut as one would hope for. The primary reason for the delay in presentation of the results is the sheer quantity of data points to be entered into the equation." Larry steepled his fingers, allowing the pencil to sit unattended on the offending paper. "You see, when you have as many variables as you gave Charles, one can only discuss the probabilities of success. And with the widespread variation among the variables, the likelihood of one route over another may be miniscule, to say the least. I fear the answers may not help you as much as we would like, Don."

Don struggled to derive some meaning from Larry's words. "You mean, you and Charlie solved it already?"

"No, I fear I cannot take credit for the endeavor," Larry returned. "Charles consulted me on a minor point, I gave him my opinion, and then I regretfully returned to evaluating the student efforts that you see before me." He frowned. "I suspect my time would have been better spent in assisting Charles. Certainly it would have been more intriguing, despite the fact that Charles had all but completed the work."

"But Charlie finished it?" Don persisted.

"By now? Indubitably. We discussed the decision points no later than yesterday afternoon. Why? Hasn't Charles presented you with the results?"

"No, he hasn't." And that wasn't like his brother. Absent-minded, yes. Flaky, and then some. But once he'd puzzled out a problem, Charlie wasted no time in bringing the results to Don. Charlie took that responsibility quite seriously. A small ice cube formed inside. "Larry, when was the last time you saw Charlie?"

Larry automatically glanced at his watch. "We discussed the analysis over lunch, then Charles returned to his office. He would not have required more than one hour's time to complete it, although the computer program itself would have taken several hours. But by now—actually, by ten last evening—the program should have reached a final conclusion." Don's concern spread to the physics professor. "Don, where is Charles?"

"Good question," Don said grimly. "He's not home, he's not at his office, he's not answering his cell phone. Any other place he could be?"

Larry pursed his lips. "The library, perhaps? Although Charles' own collection would be far more pertinent to this field of endeavor—no, perhaps not. If Charles required additional data as to the topological features of the terrain, he would have sought such details out in the main library." Larry shoved the papers aside, then took a moment to straighten them into an orderly pile. "Come. We'll see if he's there in the library."

But he was not.

* * *

Charlie had lost all sense of time long ago. He had slept, he'd scrounged through his pockets to see if there was anything edible—there wasn't—and shouting hadn't worked. No one could hear him from the street, and no one had come to work on the hacienda. What had happened? His father and Elena del Castillo had expected to come back every day to get a little more done, to harvest the treasures left behind by her grandfather. Why hadn't they shown up?

The only people to arrive at the hacienda were those angry voices, and Charlie had no intention of going from the frying pan into the fire. The words they used he couldn't understand, but the meaning was clear enough. The gang had come back once more since he'd been stuck in this room, and Charlie had stayed silent again. If they would torture one of their own, they'd certainly kill an intruder.

No one knew he was here. How long had it been? No; the real question was, was anyone looking for him yet? Let's puzzle this out logically: he'd slept more than once, so that implied that he'd been stuck in this room for several hours. A day? Maybe. In which case someone would have missed him, his father at least. And his father would have called Don, who would have… Well, Charlie didn't know what Don would do. Weren't there policies and protocols to go through when someone went missing? A twenty four hour thing, something like that? Had it been twenty four hours yet? It must have been; he'd already gone through being hungry and was back to that dull, gnawing pain inside that he usually ignored when he was on the track to solving a math problem. When had he eaten last? That could be a clue to how long it had been. Let's see, he'd lunched with Larry, discussed that point about the Diaspora Analysis and Larry had given him excellent insight into the point that related to the ravines that crossed three of the routes that Don had given him as data. His next stop had been to Huizenga Library to research the geography of the area—the library had excellent maps of the region—and then back to plug in the data into the university mainframe. That had taken him to three o'clock in the afternoon. The results wouldn't trickle in until at least seven, so Charlie had put the intervening time to good use: he'd come here to the hacienda. The odd dimensions had still been nagging at him at that point, had driven him back here to investigate. It had still been the middle of the day, had been bright out. It was safe, wasn't it? Charlie snorted to himself. Safe. Right. That's why he was stuck here. No food, no water, no white board to work out problems. All the necessities of life: missing.

Well, if no one was going to come to the hacienda to rescue him, Charlie would simply have to get himself out of this mess. If there was no doorknob, no mechanism to unlock, then brute force would have to do. There were times when an elegant solution was not the optimum solution. And the wood in this house was old and falling apart. Charlie shouldn't have too much trouble breaking the door down.

He felt around for the proper spot where he'd come in, rapping his knuckles to see if he could determine the weakest area, the most hollow. No luck; the entire area sounded hollow, which made sense since it led into the master bedroom. The bedroom itself would act as an echo chamber to his questing fingers. _He_ could hear it, Charlie grumbled. Why couldn't anyone else?

No help for it. Charlie leaned his shoulder against the spot where he thought that the door was, and applied gentle pressure. No use in destroying more than he had to in order to escape.

The wood didn't even creak. It didn't give an inch, didn't give a centimeter, didn't even budge the tiniest millimeter. Charlie increased his force, using his legs to help push against the rotting wood.

Rotting wood apparently was unaware that it was supposed to splinter into sawdust. Either that, or this part of the hacienda wasn't rotting.

Charlie tried kicking, tried slamming things into the wall, tried everything he could think of. He even wondered about setting fire to the wood but dismissed that as a) too risky and b) impractical. He had nothing with which to start a fire.

And the cell phone hadn't miraculously acquired power.

And his pockets remained empty of food, water, and whatever else he needed to sustain life.

And, worst of all, there was nothing to write down mathematical equations onto. He'd have to be satisfied with remembering them, until someone found his desiccated corpse sitting in the easy chair when they finally got around to demolishing the hacienda and erecting the community center.

* * *

"I think you know a little more than you're telling us, Senora Colon," Megan said, trying for a mixture of severe authority balanced with woman-to-woman understanding. "You need to tell us what's going on."

"Please. You ask Senor Rivera. He knows what you are asking. I'm just a poor _pesante_, trying to make a better life for my _ninos_."

"And they're coming to join you, right?" Megan oozed. The interrogation room was cold and austere, no pictures on the walls, only windows around the edges with one way glass. It didn't matter; Senora Colon knew she was being observed by others but Megan was the only person she could see. The only person asking the questions.

"Si. My children, they are coming here to America. They will have a good life."

Megan switched tactics. "How old are they? How many?"

"Four," Senora Colon said proudly. "Three boys, one girl. Pilar Cristina, she is the youngest."

"That's a pretty name," Megan said. "How long has it been since you've seen her?"

The woman's face fell. "Five years. I left her with my sister five years ago."

"So she would be, what, twelve?" Megan guessed, watching the woman's face.

"Fifteen," Senora Colon sighed. "My sister, she sent me a picture of Pilar and the boys. My daughter is very beautiful. I ask Senor Rivera to bring her here. She is so beautiful, she can be a model and earn lots of money. Senor Rivera, he said he will send for her."

"She's coming soon?"

It was too much. Senora Colon's face froze. "No," she said woodenly.

It was a lie. Even the observers outside the one way windows could see that. It was clear that Senora Colon knew how Don Juan Rivera earned his money, and wasn't about to jeopardize it now, not when her family was ready to cross the border.

But did she know exactly? Did Senora Colon know the details of Don Juan Rivera's operation? Did she know what happened to the young and beautiful girls and boys that crossed over with Rivera's guides?

Megan pulled out pictures, pictures taken with a long range telephoto lens. They showed a small shanty town on the Mexican side of the border, a town that barely deserved the title of civilization. It was just a couple of tossed together shacks that would funnel the rain away and, if you happened to be sitting in exactly the right spot, would protect from the wind. For the two dozen people milling around in the picture, there was little cover.

"Do you recognize this?" Megan asked.

"No," Senora Colon lied, her eyes widening.

"Let's see if I can get a better picture." Megan leafed through the manila folder, looking for a certain picture. She selected one; not the one she was really after, but one that would build the tension. She placed another picture on the table and swiveled it around so that Senora Colon could see it. "How about this one?"

It showed several people, most just over childhood, all with pretty features grimed with dust and mud and determination. Senora Colon's attention was riveted to the photo, her eyes wide.

"I think I have a few that show the faces better." Megan's gaze wasn't on the photos. It was on Senora Colon. Megan pulled out several pictures this time, pictures that showed several of the people in far better detail. The pictures had been enhanced to clear up the features of the intended crossers. Megan pushed the pictures at Senora Colon.

The effect was electric. Senora Colon touched the photos, as if her fingers could see better than her eyes. Her lips moved; Megan could just barely make out 'Juan Miguel'. A tear formed in Senora Colon's eye. Her hands began to tremble.

"How about this one?" Megan asked softly, pushing another photo toward the woman. It was the one she was saving for last, going on gut instinct.

"Pilar." It was barely audible.

"These pictures were taken four days ago." Megan hardened her voice. "Those people are already in the United States."

"No."

Megan had a map ready. She pulled in out of her file and spread it onto the table. "This is the town where they gathered. That's where the pictures were taken, four days ago. Our people saw them head for the border. They went into a ravine, and we lost them. We don't know where they came out. But we know that they're somewhere in Los Angeles. Why hasn't Senor Rivera brought your children to you, senora? Why has he kept them from you?"

She waited for that to sink in. Waited for Senora Colon to be ready to process more information. More horror.

"You have four children, Senora Colon. Are those two of them? Are the other two boys there as well?"

"No." It was a lie. They both knew it.

"Pilar is very beautiful, Senora." Megan paused. "Senor Rivera will get a great deal of money when he sells her. And your son; who will buy him, Senora? What will they do with him once they purchase him?" Megan then gentled her voice. "You raised him to be a good Catholic boy, didn't you, senora? There was a church in the town where you came from. You went to church every Sunday, and on the Saints' Days." Another pause, to let the senora contemplate the horror. "Senor Rivera has taken them, senora. He has taken your children. He is going to sell them to bad people. Do you want that to happen to your children?"

"No." The tears were flowing.

"Then help us, senora. Tell us where they are. Let us save your children."

"But Senor Rivera—he promised! He promised me to bring me my babies! I paid him money!"

"He lied to you, Senora. He lies to everyone. You work for him; you know what he does." Megan pushed the pictures back in front of her. "Four days, senora. Four days he has your children. Soon he will sell them."

"No!"

"Why hasn't he brought you your babies?" The children were all but grown, but to Senora Colon, they would always be 'her babies'. "Where are your children? Where are Pilar and Juan Miguel?"

Senora Colon broke. "Tonight!" she wailed. "_Esta_ _noche!_ _Cada mes, el se llama a los_—"

The story poured out. Megan called in an interpreter to keep up with the flood of Spanish. Every month, they learned, Rivera held an auction to sell the cream of the illegal immigrants to the wealthy and unscrupulous of the world. Some purchasers would fly in from other countries to attend, bringing cash with them. Others lived here in this country. Those that were purchased were taken away and never seen again.

Each auction would be held in a different place. Sometimes it would be held at Don Juan's estate in the hills, sometimes elsewhere; Senora Colon didn't know quite where. Many important people came. Senora Colon and the others would prepare the food for the guests, sometimes would serve on trays until it was time for the auction. Then the important guests would go into a back room where the auction took place. Senora Colon had never been there, had never seen an auction.

But she sometimes heard the cries.


	4. Charity 4

"This is most unlike Charles," Dr. Fleinhardt said. He held the papers in his hands, perusing them. The papers were the print out of the results of the calculations that Dr. Eppes had run through the mainframe computer. Larry, at the request of Don, had walked over to the computer lab on campus with the special agent to investigate the research that Charlie had been doing for the FBI. They were standing in the computer area now, sheaves of paper neatly stacked, with a tidy scatter plot graph as the topic of the front most page. A bleary eyed student shuffled past, trying to figure out just what error in code had caused his own results to look like a child's game of 'pick up sticks'. "These results were available as of nine twenty-three last evening. Surely Charles would have retrieved them by now."

_If he could_, went unsaid. Don pulled out his cell. "Let me try home. Maybe he's showed up there."

His father picked up on the first ring, a sign of how nervous the older man was. "Charlie?"

"No, Dad, it's me. Charlie hasn't checked in yet?"

"No. Would I be saying his name if he had? Where is he? Is he there?"

"He's not at CalSci," Don told him. "I'm here with Larry, and Charlie never picked up the data that he was working on for me. Did you check that project thing you're working on? Was Charlie there?"

"We were there at the hacienda this morning," Alan said grimly. "No sign of Charlie. Plenty of signs of squatters, but no Charlie. Where is he, Donnie?"

"Good question."

"Could it be something in connection with your work?"

Don pursed his lips. "Probably not. The current case, the guy we're after doesn't even know that Charlie exists."

"What if it's not the current case?"

Don nodded, although his father couldn't see it. "I'll have my people check on the back cases, make sure that everyone's in jail. I can't see anyone going after Charlie, but I'd like to make sure. Have you called the local hospitals—"

"Already done," his father interrupted. "Not only do they not have any John Does, they don't even have any Jane Does right now. Where is he, Donnie?"

"I don't know, Dad—"

"Well, find him! Isn't that what the FBI is for? Finding kidnapped people?"

"We don't know that he's been kidnapped. There hasn't been any ransom demand—"

"And why else would he not be showing up?" Alan demanded. "He's not in the garage, he's not answering his cell, he's not at CalSci, he's not at the estate, he's not anywhere! Where is he, Donnie?" Fear came through loud and clear.

"I don't know, Dad!" Don felt like hanging up, anything to distance himself. "Listen, I'm going to call in to headquarters. I'm going to put people on this. I'll find him, Dad." He took a deep breath. "You stay home, Dad, in case Charlie shows up. I'll check in periodically." Another deep breath. "I'll find him, Dad."

Larry too shared the worried look. "Don?"

"Not home." As if that weren't obvious by listening to one side of the conversation. "What does this data say?" Might as well make this trip partially useful.

"I'm not certain, Don. This is Charles' equation, and I'm not clear on all the variables that he used. It appears to delineate a location, perhaps two."

"What locations?"

"Again, I don't have the necessary data. They are merely described as data points. Perhaps in Charles' office—"

"Larry, I hate to ask this of you, but I really need you to try and run those locations down," Don told him. "They could be important." Really important. If Don wanted to pull his team to look for Charlie, he was going to need all the data he could to justify pulling personnel off of the Rivera case. And that meant reducing the number of routes that needed to be covered to a bare minimum.

His phone rang again, and he flipped it open. "Eppes."

"Don? Megan. Listen, we've had a break. Senora Colon spilled everything. Rivera is holding a slave auction tonight, location unknown. David's getting together with the Tech team. We think we can plant a transponder onto Senora Colon without Rivera knowing about it, and follow her when he takes her and the other women to serve as waitresses at his little soiree."

Don barely heard her words. "Megan, is Charlie there?"

"Charlie? No, I haven't seen him. Has he found something—"

"He's missing," Don interrupted.

"Missing? Charlie—"

"Nobody's seen him for twenty four hours," Don said, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. "We've checked home, CalSci, that project that he's working on with my father. Everywhere."

"Hospital emergency rooms?"

"There, too."

"Friends, maybe a girl he hasn't told you about?"

"Megan—"

"Right, he's working on the routes Rivera uses. You're right, Don. Charlie wouldn't leave you hanging on that. Hang on a second." There was an adjustment, and the volume grew more airy. "I've put you on speakerphone. David and Colby are here. What do you want us to do?"

"Check the penitentiary list; cross it against cases that Charlie's worked on. They should be notifying me when a disgruntled customer is released, but that doesn't always happen."

"You think maybe someone's out for revenge? Against Charlie? Most of them don't even know that he was involved with their case."

"You have a better idea?" It came out more harshly than Don intended. "Sorry, Megan."

"Understandable. What about the Rivera case, Don? If we move fast, Senora Colon will cooperate. Her kids are there, and she thinks that Rivera is going to sell them into slavery. If we don't do it tonight, we'll lose her cooperation. She'll have nothing to gain, and everything to lose."

"I—" Don stopped. Not enough people. They'd need everyone of his team and then some to cover the Rivera case, to bring down Rivera and his operation and arrest all of his customers. They could scrap the plan to cover the border crossings, and put those people onto the very solid lead that Megan had snatched. They could do that without figuring out Charlie's data. They could do that no matter where Charlie was. And they had enough people for the auction. The border crossing plan was a crap shoot.

They were going to need at least a team of twenty to cover where ever Rivera held his slave auction, to put a team of two on each exit and still have enough to combat the firepower that Rivera undoubtedly had for protection, but the time would be finite. They wouldn't have teams scattered all across the desert for eight hour shifts, watching a route that might not pan out. _This_ operation was do-able, and efficient, and would take out one very bad hombre and make not only the D.A. a great case but Area Director D'Angelo very happy with his year end budget. If they were lucky, they'd even be able to trace where most of the 'slaves' had ended up and make a whole bunch of mothers and fathers happy as well.

One person missing: his brother.

An entire illegal operation, rescuing perhaps hundreds of people and shutting down a major influx of drugs.

The decision was clear. Missing persons belonged with the LAPD. And Charlie wasn't even missing twenty four hours. Don knew what LAPD would say: that his brother had been swept off of his feet by a pretty skirt, or a pretty set of pants, depending on his inclinations, and accompany the remark with a snigger. They'd tell him that his brother would show up eventually. Did his brother demonstrate any signs of mental instability? Genius was next to madness, you know. Perhaps his brother had temporarily gone off the deep end. Maybe he had needed a break from the tension of academic life. Maybe he'd gone fishing. Maybe he was in the morgue; did you check there, Special Agent Eppes? Are you aware of how many people go missing in L.A. _every day_, Special Agent Eppes?

Don had a job to do. His brother was missing, but so were Senora Colon's children. And the children from many other families.

"This Colon woman, she's going to cooperate?"

"Yes, Don." Megan recognized the delaying tactic for what it was.

Don took a deep breath. "Wire her up. Set up for tonight. Make that the priority."

"I'll handle that end, Don," David inserted. "I don't need help until it's ready to go down." Which meant that the other two could help to track down one missing math professor until it was time to implement the Rivera raid.Itmeant six hours of top notch FBI expertise left available for other pursuits: missing person pursuits. "You guys go after Charlie. He's one of our own, Don. He's a consultant for the FBI, which makes him our responsibility."

A weight lifted off of Don's shoulders, a weight that he hadn't realized was there. He had a good team. He had good people.

And Don had a funny feeling that he'd need all the help he could get.

* * *

One more time, the voices died away. It was a relief; there was a lot of heartbroken sobbing this time. Very few sounds of blows; that, in Charlie's estimation, was a good thing. But he still didn't dare try to escape from his prison while it was going on.

There were a lot of voices this time, at least a dozen, Charlie thought, all speaking Spanish. Several were female voices, but not all. Some tromped through the master bedroom, and Charlie froze, fearing to be discovered. Boy, was he going to have a conversation with Don when he finally got out of here! This nest of squatters needed to be cleaned out and cleaned up. There was definitely something nasty going on, and Charlie would really rather not know the sordid details. Listening to the misery was enough for him. Dr. del Castillo had been right in her decision to turn this place into something that the neighborhood could be proud of rather than afraid.

The voices went back downstairs, rattled around for a bit, then, Charlie presumed, left. Doors opened and closed. It became quiet again, only the creaking of the old building creating the noise around him. Not that Charlie could hear all that much; apparently Elena's grandfather had invested in early Twentieth Century sound-proofing for this room. That was okay with Charlie; he didn't want to think about what he hadn't heard. What had gotten through was plenty. And a little sound-proofing on his end would keep them from hearing Charlie himself. Charlie waited until there were no more sounds left.

He had to get out of this room. Was he growing weaker? How long had he been here without food or water?

Naw. It was just his imagination running wild. Tired, sure; hungry and thirsty beyond a doubt. But it couldn't have been longer than a day at most that he'd been in this room. How long did it take to die of hunger and thirst? More than a day, that was for certain.

There had to be a way to get out. Elena's grandfather wouldn't have built this room as a trap. It was supposed to be a sanctuary, not a prison. All Charlie had to do was to find the exit sign.

In the dark.

He steeled himself. The latch would be somewhere, and certainly covered in cobwebs. Not the most pleasant of tasks, but staying here indefinitely had less to recommend it than getting his hands dirty.

He'd already searched that wall, the part where he had entered. That hadn't worked. Okay, move forward in a pattern. He took himself to the adjoining wall, cursing as he banged his shin against some unseen piece of furniture, feeling with questing fingers for anything that would depress, something that would be a hidden lock.

There were frequent pauses to wipe his hands against his shirt, shuddering as he did so. The shirt was ruined, of that Charlie was certain. But it would be a small price to pay to get out of here and into the sunlight. Heck, it was a tee shirt. It didn't cost that much.

Hey—was that a knot hole that he felt? And more than that: it felt like it could sink beneath his fingertips. Charlie grew cautiously excited.

Yes, it definitely moved. Charlie was on the right track. The knot hole depressed, and Charlie heard a tiny grating noise.

Decision time. Was there another knot hole needed to release the door, or would Charlie be able to slide the door open with just this one pseudo-lock? If Charlie went to the door and was wrong, he'd waste valuable minutes trying to retrace his steps in the dark. On the other hand, if this one knot hole was all there was to opening the door, he'd waste even more time and energy looking for something that wasn't there.

Logic, buddy boy. Try to think like the old man. What would Elena's _abuelito_ have done?

Single knot hole, Charlie decided. Emerging from this sanctuary wasn't to be the difficult part. Getting in was the old man's challenge so that others couldn't find him, but getting back out should be routine. With one last brush of his fingertips against the slender circle on the side wall, Charlie made his way back to where the door was. He banged his shin—the other one—against the same piece of furniture. _If that table isn't broken already, I will cheerfully break it myself in revenge._

More cobwebs sliding against his fingers, searching for the slender edge of the door—there it is. Insert the fingers, yes, push them against the too tiny slit, hope that someone in the past had sanded the edge extremely well so that splinters wouldn't be the price of his escape—_yes!_

The door grated, but it gave. Charlie increased the force, slipping his fingers into the crack he'd made, exerting more leverage to force the door open. That's it, six inches equivalent to 13.2 centimeters, most human bodies are less than one foot wide front to back, which meant that an opening 26.4 centimeters would be enough to—

Charlie squeezed out into the master bedroom, huffing and puffing and wheezing from the dust and exertion.

To be met by two pairs of dark and highly displeased eyes.

* * *

In this imperfect world, Colby reflected bitterly, there was a first for everything. That phone call had been a first for him: it was the first time in his career that he had ever been sorry to get a lead on a case.

Not just any case. It was this damn Rivera case, the one that they were busting their butts to close. The one where a certain kingpin most deservedly needed to come down hard.

And Colby had the key.

That phone call had been from the kid with the street name of Shark. He'd fingered the location where Rivera held the illegals that he'd crossed into America, the place where he kept them until he was ready to sell them or distribute the drugs that he'd forced the kids to carry into this country. With what Shark had given him, if they were lucky, Colby could set into motion a bust that would nab the entire sorry mob and let the FBI go home in time for dinner instead of this after-hours raid that David was setting up.

But it would mean diverting their efforts from the search for Charlie.

Colby liked Charlie. Didn't understand the guy, but after all the stuff that Charlie had done for the FBI Colby was certainly ready to appreciate the power of that math stuff.

Which meant that Charlie was 'one of them'. And in Colby's mind-set, you didn't leave buddies behind. Colby wanted to be out there, looking for Don's brother. And, since Charlie had been looking for ways to take down this Rivera dude, that meant that Charlie was working on the same case. All the more reason to put your time into looking for the guy.

But…this was a damn fine lead. Reluctantly Colby picked up the phone.

"Eppes." Cold. Tight. Tired.

"Don? Colby." Colby motioned for Megan to step in to listen. "I got a lead. One of my snitches came through."

"On Charlie?"

"Sorry, no." Colby meant it. "Rivera. Fingered his hideout. It's a place in the center of L.A., one of the _barrios_. Some broken down old mansion type place. I have an address. Snitch says Rivera is keeping his cargo there right now, but gonna move 'em out tonight." He tried to keep his voice even.

"Damn." A pause, wrestling with a too strong conscience. "Damn. Call the troops, Colby. Talk to David. Get the flak jackets; we'll go in one hour. Get help from LAPD and the Border Patrol. The Patrol has earned the right to be in at the end; they've been chasing Rivera's tail longer than we have."

"What about Charlie?" Megan asked.

An angry sigh. "I talked to LAPD. They've started the hunt early, before twenty four hours, as a favor to me. They put out an APB."

None of them needed to elaborate on how successful they thought the APB would be.

"We'll find him, Don," Megan said firmly. "We'll find him."

* * *

"_Callete, gringo_!"

And since the words were accompanied by a blow that rattled his teeth, Charlie correctly deciphered that his captors wanted him to keep silent. He licked the sliver of blood from his lip and decided on the spot to shut up.

Bad points: hands tied behind his back. New bruise on his mouth and, he suspected, a black eye. Four small but—as they had demonstrated—very strong men who seemed intent on making sure that Charlie went nowhere. Tired. Hungry. Thirsty. Scared. And alone.

Good points: he now knew that it was late afternoon, which meant that he'd been stuck in _Abuelito's_ study for a little more than twenty four hours. Charlie struggled to come up with more good points, and could only think of one: he was alive. It was a start.

His captors talked on cell phones in rapid fire Spanish, too fast for Charlie to keep up. He didn't like the way they kept eying him, either. Charlie would have expected them to stare at him with worried glances, afraid that he might call the police or, if they knew who he was, his brother the FBI agent. Instead, these men looked him over with an appraising glance. Charlie remembered his mother looking much the same way at some bauble she was thinking of purchasing: _how much is it worth?_ It made him feel uncomfortable in the extreme. These men weren't afraid of him or what he might do. They were thinking in terms of profit.

They pulled his wallet out, examining the contents, and telling the person on the other end of the phone his name. One of them grabbed Charlie by the hair, staring at his face. Charlie yelped in sudden pain, and the man drew his arm back to deliver another blow.

A sharp word from the man on the cell stopped the blow. Another rapid exchange of Spanish, and Charlie's handler threw Charlie to the floor. Another bruise collected; with his hands tied behind him, Charlie was unable to break his fall.

More words, more instructions. They picked Charlie up and shoved him toward the stairs.

* * *

"They found Charlie?" His father's voice was instantly full of hope.

Don hated to dash those hopes. "No. But I've got LAPD looking for him. And the undercover people we have on the streets are keeping an eye out," he added.

Lips tightened into a thin line. "More than I can do."

Don swallowed hard. "We're doing everything we can, Dad," he said gently. "Charlie'll turn up. Listen, I have to go. Stay here; wait for me. Maybe Charlie will call in."

"Right." Then a light bulb went off in the senior Eppes' head. "Wait a minute."

"You thought of something?"

"Yeah. You remember that project that Charlie is helping me on? The hacienda with Elena del Castillo from CalSci?"

"Yeah." _Not really, but go ahead_.

"Donnie, I told you that Charlie had gotten it into his head that there was something funny about the way that the house was built. Something wrong with the numbers."

"Right. You were there yesterday. He wasn't there."

"But we didn't go inside!" Alan told him. "Elena wanted to clean up the outside a bit, make it look more like it did when she was there. Donnie, Charlie could have been stuck inside, and we never even looked!"

_Probably not, Dad. Charlie would have yelled to you as soon as he heard you two come up the walk. Even if he was hurt, he would have called out_. But—"go check it out, Dad. Call me inside of an hour, because if I don't hear from you, I'm sending the SWAT team." _It will keep you busy and thinking that you're doing something productive. _

"Right." Alan looked at his son grimly. Whatever his FBI agent son was up to, it had to be something major. Nothing less would drag him away from looking for Charlie. "You be careful, son." _I can't afford to lose you, too_, came out loud and clear.

Don nodded. "You too, Dad."

* * *

Butterflies in the stomach were a given when Don strapped on a flak jacket. Armoring up meant a high risk operation, a situation where he or someone else stood an even chance of getting something important—and frequently painful—shot off.

This time was worse. Not only was he going after one of the major crime figures in the area—one with a reputation for eliminating those who annoyed him—but he was doing it while his brother was missing, and his father headed into one of the less savory parts of L.A. to look for him. Don sighed. He'd have an ulcer before this day was through.

His team didn't look much better. Megan looked good, but that was only because she was having a good hair day. The tight lines around her eyes betrayed her concern. She agreed with Don's decision to go ahead with the raid because it was the right thing to do but that didn't mean that she had to like it. Like everyone else, she wanted to be out looking for Charlie.

Colby was in the corner, briefing the three Border Patrol men that had come to join in. Each looked grim, and loaded for bear. The rifles that each carried so easily shone with deadly firepower. Colby had introduced them a few moments ago; what were their names? Morales, McNamera, and Wright. Two of 'em tall and rangy, the other short and swarthy and looking like he could hole up in the canyons for weeks on end. None of them were people that Don particularly wanted to have angry at him.

David made his way over, lacing up his own jacket. Don made a point of edging over to him. "Everything set?"

David nodded. "Senora Colon's wired for sound and on her way back home. Hopefully we won't need her. Hopefully we can nab everybody in this go around and bag the raid on the slave auction." _And get back to looking for Charlie soonest_.

Don grimaced. "Her first clue will be when her boss doesn't show up." He looked around at the room filled with FBI agents and Border Patrol. LAPD would meet them at the scene. "Anybody know that this may turn into a two part scenario?"

"Not from me," David said easily. "Figured that since Rivera seems to be so good at getting information and eliminating the competition, I'd like to keep him off guard. Just in case he slips through our fingers. Nobody except us knows about Senora Colon. They all think they're here from Colby's lead."

"Rivera may not even be there at the L.A. site," Don added gloomily. "He's got people to handle the merchandise for him. He's probably where ever he needs to be, supervising the preparations for tonight's bash and slavery auction. Is the champagne chilled?" he added mockingly.

David changed the subject. "Anything from Charlie?" As in, _that's where we really want to be._

Don looked away. "My father's checking out the housing project again. He should be checking in—" His cell buzzed at him. "That's him." Don flipped open the device. "Dad?"

"Donnie? Listen, there's a problem—"

_Not another problem. I can't handle much more, Dad. Just tell me you found Charlie. _Don swallowed. "What is it, Dad?" His father wouldn't sound so calm if he'd found Charlie lying in a pool of blood. "Did you find Charlie?"

"Donnie, I can't get in to the del Castillo hacienda. I drove up to the place, and there's a bunch of squatters in there, making a mess and yelling. Under the circumstances, I didn't want to go up to the door and politely ask them to leave—"

It wasn't merely an ice cube that formed in the pit of Don's stomach. The suspicion that erupted was enough to match the iceberg that sank the Titanic. "Dad, what's the address of your project?"

"What's that got to do with—"

"What's the damn address?" Don didn't mean to yell. It just came out that way, born of fear.

Alan gave it. "It's just a few blocks away from—"

"I know where it is. I know _exactly_ where it is." Don took a tight rein on himself. "Dad, listen to me very carefully. Are you in your car?"

"Yes, but—"

"I want you to leave. Now. And make sure the car doors are locked. And the windows up."

"Donnie—"

"Now, Dad." Don said it with quiet determination. "Please don't argue. Just do it." He took a deep breath. "If Charlie is in there, Dad, we will find him."

"Donnie?" Alan caught his fear.

"Please go, Dad. I want you safe."

"Donnie, what's going on?"

Don took a deep breath. "Dad, in just a few minutes that place is going to be swarming with FBI. Get out of there. Please, Dad. I need you to go. Now. Immediately."

"And I want both my sons safe," Alan muttered with an I'm-_this_-close-to-charging-inside-right-now tone. "I'm out of here. Call me, Don, as soon as you know anything. I mean it, Don."

"I will, Dad." Don closed the cell before his father could raise any more objections.

Megan moved up to Don's shoulder. "Don?"

Don met her eyes. "Three guesses as to where this 'project' of Dad's is. And the first two guesses don't count."

Megan caught her breath. "Don't tell me—?"

"You got it. Right in Rivera's little hideaway. He says that it's swarming with people."

"Is Charlie there?"

"If he is, he's in big trouble. And that's not from me. My father didn't see him, just a bunch of squatters."

Megan frowned. "At least we know that Rivera hasn't moved his cargo yet. We can catch him with his pants down."

"Then let's do it." Don raised his voice. "Everybody ready? Move out."

* * *

The hacienda was almost the way his father had described it, except that Don wasn't seeing the same potential that his father and his father's client saw every time they were there. The place was a two story ramshackle and rundown adobe place, astoundingly large to be found in L.A. and reminiscent of a Mexican don's estate before California was part of the U.S. Except for the weeds, Don could imagine a bunch of grimy peasants coming to pay their respects and their taxes to the lord of the manor, leading burros laden with corn in burlap sacks. All that was missing was the piles of horse manure still to be shoveled away.

But now, in the New Millenium, there weren't grimy peasants but illegal immigrants who had crossed the border in search of a better life and were now finding that their hope of salvation had turned on them.

The place looked eerily quiet. His father had said that there were squatters, but Don saw no sign of them, no lights inside against the deepening dusk and no muted sounds from within suggesting that breathing bipeds were anywhere but surrounding the house. He frowned. Had Rivera moved them out? Had he gotten the word that a raid was imminent? Don couldn't see how. Colby's snitch had only called in less than two hours ago, and Megan had pulled the troops together in under sixty minutes. There hadn't been time for Rivera to be alerted.

Maybe Rivera's people had their cargo tied and gagged. There was likely to be a lot of sobbing and wailing, not exactly the sort of thing that Rivera would want to parade on the street.

Don got that hinky feeling, the one that suggested that, under the right circumstances, he had a bull's eye on his back and he'd left his bullet proof vest at home. The same feeling that told him that he'd made a big, fat boo-boo. Or was walking into an ambush. He'd learned not to ignore that feeling.

He pulled out his walkie-talkie, speaking quietly. "Everybody in place?"

A murmured crowd of affirmatives.

He exchanged looks with Megan. She could see how worried he was. She raised her eyebrows: _what?_

He shrugged. _Beats me. You feel it?_

_Yes. And it makes me nervous_.

Don tabbed the walkie-talkie. "Heads up, people. We're going in fast and hard, on my signal. Everybody keep their eyes peeled."

The one advantage to this operation, Don decided, was that there was no need for a warrant. One call to his father's client, a Dr. Elena del Castillo, gave them permission to knock the creaky door in with her heartfelt blessing. Don nodded to David and Colby, the pair armed with a battering ram and with a squadron of FBI agents armed to the teeth behind them. He held up his fist: on the count of three…Go!

David pounded on the door. "FBI! Open up!"

Colby gave them no opportunity to comply. The battering ram slammed against the rickety door and gave after no more than a token resistance.

"Move! Move! Move!"

Helmeted men flooded inside, guns held at ready, shouting and trying to terrify the illegal inhabitants into instant submission.

There was only one problem: there was no one to terrify.

Elvis had left the building.

* * *

Don set up a rapid action command post outside the front door. "Anything?"

"They were here," David reported, as if that weren't a given. "We found traces of inhabitants, including food wrappers and dirty clothing. A couple of pesos in some pockets, and a lucky rabbit's foot."

Don grunted. "Not so lucky."

"Not for them, or us," David agreed. "They were here, I know it."

"You and me, both. Any sign of Charlie?"

"No distinguishing evidence of anyone. Nothing personal, nothing to identify anyone. There was at least a dozen people here, to judge by the amount of trash they left behind. They were moved out just moments before we arrived."

"Couldn't have been too long," Don agreed. "My father saw them here less than twenty minutes earlier. What happened?"

"That many people, someone must have tipped them off," was Colby's opinion. "Nobody moves out that fast unless they have a reason to hustle."

"So what was their reason?" Don wanted to know.

They looked at each other, not wanting to voice what each was thinking.

"Maybe," David said reluctantly.

"But who?" Colby asked. "If Rivera's got an informant, then who is it?" His gaze automatically surveyed the room, the FBI agents mingling with LAPD and the Border Patrol. "Could be anyone of them."

"Or even one of us," David admitted. "It would explain how Rivera's been able to avoid capture for so long. He has an inside source."

"But we've only been on the case for a couple of days," Don argued. His gaze automatically sought out the LAPD personnel present, lingering on the Border Patrol trio beside them. "Where does the system break down?"

"Don?"

"Where does the system break down?" Don repeated, almost to himself. "Rivera's gotten away with a lot of crap. Where do we lose him?"

"Crossing the border," David replied, seeing where Don was going. "You think—?

"I'm thinking that a little checking into certain financial histories may be in order." Don carefully didn't indicate the trio. He kept his voice low. "I'm thinking that I want to see the cell phone records for the Border Patrol people most closely associated with the routes that we believe Senor Rivera uses to get his cargo across the border. And I'm thinking we want to see those records _now_." He glanced around. "Anything here that will help us figure out where they were headed with these people that they've just kidnapped? Because if Rivera's being true to form, the people here are being hauled off to the auction block to be sold to some very unpleasant people." He looked around once more, raising his voice with finality. "Let's pack it in, people. Rivera beat us out—"

"Don?" Megan appeared at the top of the staircase. "Don, I think you need to see this."

"Megan?" Don leaped for the stairs. "What have you got?"

Megan led him into the master bedroom, a room large and airy with windows placed to take advantage of the ocean breezes passing through. It was not the windows that Megan brought him to see but a crack in the wall, a sliding door that looked designed to blend in with the rest of the wood paneling. There was a lot of dust with a lot of footprints. Footprints, Don noted unhappily, that would fit the size of a certain mathematician.

"This room looks as though it was built a long time ago," Megan said, "and that it hadn't been used for years. It would be a perfect place to hide. I missed it myself the first time I walked through this room. It was sheer luck that the flashlight caught the edge of the door, open just a crack."

"And inside the room?"

"Evidence that someone had been in the secret room for a while: footprints, disturbed cobwebs, things like that. But that's not all, Don." Megan seemed especially unhappy. She handed him a wallet. "I found them on the floor inside the secret room. The money and credit cards are missing."

But the driver's license wasn't. A wide-eyed gaze surrounded by a tousled mop of dark hair stared back at him, a face that he'd seen almost every day of his childhood for as far back as Don could remember. The ice cubes in his belly that he'd almost managed to forget during the adrenaline rush of the operation reappeared with a vengeance.

Charlie had been here.

And, forgetful as his little brother was, leaving his wallet behind wasn't something that he was likely to do.

He coughed savagely, trying to cover his fear. "Any blood?"

"Maybe a smear on the chair, but nothing significant." _Nothing that meant someone special had been shot, or knifed, or killed._ "Could belong to anyone."

"Right. Get Forensics down here ASAP. David?" he called.

David appeared at the door, Colby on his heels. Don motioned them over, and lowered his voice. "LAPD and Border Patrol leave yet?"

"Not yet."

"Hah. Tell 'em the party's over, and they still won't go home." Don frowned. "Colby, push 'em out the door. Dismiss 'em, whatever. Just don't arouse any suspicions. This raid was a bust, as far as we're concerned. We found evidence of wrong-doing, we're calling in Forensics to see what clues we can come up with, but we're still floundering. That's the official word on this raid."

"What about tonight's gig for the auction?"

"What gig?" Don stared the younger agent in the face. "Got it?"

"Got it." Colby was off to perform his assignment.

Next: David. "You've got your tracking equipment in the van?"

"Just say the word," David assured him. "I'll tap into Senora Colon's whereabouts, and we'll have the location of Rivera's soiree and auction site."

"I'm saying the word," Don said. "Go." He turned to Megan. _Time to be the professional. Forget that your little brother is probably in the hands of a gang that wants to kill him just for knowing that they exist. Forget that just moments before you got to this location, you had to tell your father to leave the area before he blew the whole operation and got killed in the crossfire. Forget that—_

"There's no evidence that he's dead, Don." Megan put into words what he wanted to believe. "If they'd wanted him dead, we'd have found the body here in this room. Or downstairs in front of the captives, so that they could frighten them into submission. A place like this, there's no reason to carry a body around. Charlie's still alive, Don."

"You think?"

"I want to believe that he's alive as much as you do, Don, and I'm just as willing to admit that I'd like to fool myself. But the circumstances say that he's alive. He's not a liability to them yet, Don."

"Then let's not give them a reason to kill him." But a nasty thought struck Don. "If they don't want him dead, what do they want him for?"

Megan wouldn't look him in the eye. "Don't make me say it, Don."

* * *

All right, so there was one major advantage to being wet, cold, and shivering: he and the rest of his fellow captives no longer stank of sweat and grime. That had been washed away with a thorough spraying with a garden hose.

Without exception, every one of his fellow captives were younger than he, most younger than even the majority of his students, and equally divided between girls and boys. There were a dozen of them, all scared with big brown eyes looking to him, the _gringo_, for direction, even only one or two spoke enough English for him to understand. For the rest, gestures would have made up the difference except for one barrier to success: they were all bound, hand and foot. Their captors were taking no chances that their human cargo would escape.

Where were they? Charlie had no idea. One phone call from their bosses, and the men had hustled Charlie and his fellow band of miserables out to a pair of non-descript white vans. They were shoved onto the floor of the vans, unable to see outside to where they were going, rolling back and forth and collecting bruises each time the vehicle turned a corner.

Some time later—Charlie thought that it was somewhere between one and two hours, but couldn't be certain—the vans rolled to a stop. By now it was dusk, the sun almost disappearing behind the horizon. Charlie got a glimpse of manicured gardens before the stream of cold water hit him in the face. By the sounds and cries, his new friends were treated to the same cleansing cold shower. He stood there, swaying and dripping, wishing for more sunlight to dry his clothes before they hustled him and everyone else inside and downstairs to a single small room.

Someone new entered the small room, accompanied by two larger men: bodyguards. The someone new was clearly in charge; everything about him boasted of it, from the tips of his expensive leather shoes to the top of his lacquered hair. That black came out of a bottle, Charlie was certain of it. He'd seen the same color on Professor Simmons' head when the old man started seeing that engineering freshman. The affair had been quietly hushed up, the boy transferred to another school, and Professor Simmons' hair went back to gray. Mrs. Simmons herself quietly transferred away from her errant husband and, last Charlie'd heard, had re-married and was doing quite well for herself with a plumber who appreciated her and her femininity. Professor Simmons, the word was, was on a fast track to retirement.

Not so this man who stood surveying his haul of human flesh. His hair was black, his clothes well-tailored, his life was good, and this was his business. "This was it?" He spoke with an accent, but clearly understandable. "This is all you could get? We won't get much for most of these." He pulled at the chin of one of the girls, forcing her head up to look at him. "Pretty enough, but no spirit. My buyers want spirit." He looked around. "Where's this scientist you brought me?" His gaze lit on Charlie, and Charlie felt as though a thousand cockroaches had crawled into his still soggy clothing. The businessman frowned. "He's _old_."

Charlie swallowed. He'd been called many things in his life, usually by bullies while growing up, fellow students during graduate school, and now undergraduates failing to make the grade, but _old_ had never been one of them. 'Young for this' and 'child prodigy' were far more common in his memories.

But, compared to the other captives, Charlie _was_ old, probably almost twice their age. The man stalked over to him, striving to look taller than he was. Charlie himself wasn't exceptionally tall, but next to this man he felt gigantic.

"Who are you?" the man demanded.

Charlie aimed for indignation. "I'm Professor Charles Eppes. And if you know what's good for you, you'll let all of us go immediately. This is illegal."

"You're a scientist?"

"I'm a mathematician," Charlie corrected. "I teach at CalSci."

"You make weapons?"

"Hardly. I teach math," Charlie repeated.

The man turned away. "He's no good to me. Kill him."

A death sentence. But the rich man's sidekick spoke in a voluble flood of Spanish, clearly disagreeing. He held out a card; Charlie recognized it as his employee ID card from CalSci.

More Spanish, more discussion. "Senor Rivera, this one will earn you much money. He is a valuable commodity, not as these children are, but to government leaders who need such expertise."

Rivera nodded slowly, thinking and pulling at his chin. "And I have three such men coming to the auction tonight. But they are not expecting this sort of purchase. They will not be prepared."

"For a treasure such as this, they will pay much," the other assured him.

Rivera's eyes raked Charlie up and down, taking in his slender frame underneath the bedraggled clothing. "He's not hideous."

"With his mind, your buyers might be willing to take a chance on trying purchase him at a good price, then selling him to an even higher market," the other said. "He is worth more to you alive than dead."

Wonderful. Next, they'd be holding a two for one sale on CalSci professors. Charlie morbidly wondered what Larry's reaction would be if the physicist were unlucky enough to be standing beside him, wet and shivering. With luck, Charlie would get to ask him, preferably over lunch with dry clothes.

With luck. With luck, these people wouldn't kill Charlie on the spot as merchandise with an expired shelf life.

How had he gotten into this mess? This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't even one of Don's cases. Sure, Charlie had gotten into trouble on a few of those, mostly because he wandered into a spot where Don had told him not to go. But this wasn't one of Don's cases. This was a project of his father's, for heaven's sake! It was supposed to be safe! Charlie had gone to the hacienda in broad daylight, no gangs around, nothing that should have been a problem.

Life is full of little surprises.

"Gag them," Rivera ordered. "Silence them all. They whimper too much. My clients won't want a lot of cries." An evil smile played across his face. "At least, no crying until the whips come out."

Charlie's blood ran cold.


	5. Charity 5

Don peered into the mystery room off of the master bedroom, trying not to sneeze at the dust. Cobwebs hung everywhere, vying with the dust for complete mastery of the room.

Someone had been in there, and recently. The evidence was clear. Fresh footprints dotted the entire place, and someone had disturbed the dust by recently napping in the easy chair, suggesting that they'd spent several hours at least holed up in the place. Had his brother been here? It seemed likely. Don pushed at the sliding door; it grated against the wood, sticking and old. There was an old newspaper on the table beside the chair, untouched. He glanced at the date: January 22, 1988. The paper had yellowed. Not surprising; it had been over a decade since anyone had entered this room.

Colby arrived back in the master bedroom. "They're gone. Both LAPD and the Border Patrol have left, with our thanks."

"They know that we've got a second operation planned?"

"Not a word. Neither do our guys, to be on the safe side. I didn't want anyone overhearing something that they shouldn't. I told our people to hang out for a couple of minutes before we go back to headquarters to debrief."

Megan came up behind him. "I've got our people back at Headquarters pulling the cell phone records for the three Border Patrol people. They were the easiest to pick out; we should have the results in a few minutes. We'll be able to tell if they made a suspicious call right before we came over here."

"Good work—David?" Don broke off.

The agent had a stricken look on his face. "Don…"

"What is it?" No, it couldn't be. Not…Charlie.

"Senora Colon…"

_Just as bad_. "She took off the wire."

"No…"

"They found her? She's dead?"

"No." David shook himself. "No, the wire didn't fail. She was in an accident. The bus she was taking home got crunched by a truck. One of our people was on the scene, saw the wire, and called it in. The hospital is keeping her overnight for observation." He swallowed hard. "Don, we have no way to track her to Rivera's auction! We don't know where it is!"

Don closed his eyes, fearing to open them. Senora Colon had been their back up plan to take down Rivera. If they didn't catch him here—which they hadn't—they would activate the tracing signal on Senora Colon and when Rivera took her and the other domestics to act as servers as his bash, where ever it was, they could move in. A fool proof plan. One that only a fool of a truck driver could thwart. And had.

Colossal bad luck. Bad luck that they hadn't caught Rivera's people right here. Bad luck that Charlie had been here when Rivera's men had moved in with their illegal cargo. Colossal bad luck that this had been the place that his father had been hired to renovate—his father! What was he going to tell his father?

"You have to call him, Don."

Dammit, was Megan a mind-reader? He started to round on her.

"He's involved, Don," Megan said. "He's in charge of this hacienda project. It would be better if one of us did the questioning."

His cell phone rang, and Don automatically flipped it open. "Eppes."

"Donnie? You find him?"

Dammit, another mind reader. One that from a couple decades of childhood he knew was damn good at it. "No, Dad." It wasn't a lie.

"He's not there?"

"No, Dad." That wasn't lie, either. "Listen, Dad, I have to talk to you. I have to find out about this place—"

"Not now, Don. I'm a little busy."

"Dad?" Don got another funny feeling, once again mixed with ice. "Dad, where are you? You went straight home, right? To wait for Charlie?"

"Not exactly." His father dodged the question.

Dodging a question? His father? Alan Eppes, who always had an answer for his boys, no matter what? "Dad?"

Silence.

Suspicion grew. "Dad, where are you?"

"I'm driving. I have to hang up. Don't you knowthat there are laws about driving and talking on a cell phone? It's dangerous."

"Dad, where are you?"

"I'm following those people, that's where I am."

Suspicion coalesced into terror. "Dad, that's dangerous! Get out of there right now! Turn around and leave!"

"It's all right, Don. They don't know I'm here."

"_I _know you're there!" Don all but shouted into the phone. "Dad—"

"Where is he?" Megan interrupted calmly. "Don, get a location. We can take it from there."

Don calmed down instantly. Megan was right. Without Senora Colon, they needed this lead. He tightened his jaw. "Get a chopper in the air five minutes ago."

"On it."

He uncovered the phone. "Okay, Dad. You've done a very stupid thing, but we're going to use it. Where are you?"

"Don't talk to your father that way."

Don gritted his teeth. "Where…are…you…?"

"East, past Bakersfield. You know that highway with the concrete green dinosaur in front of the motel with all the paint chips falling off—"

"I know it. What kind of vehicles?"

"Two white vans. You want the license plates?"

"You have them?"

"No, but I can get closer—"

"You stay back!" Don had been born into a family of crazy people. "Dad, you pull back at least a mile from those people." Megan waved at him, thumbs up. "Dad, there's a chopper headed your way. As soon as you see it, I want you to turn around and head home. Hear me?"

"Don—"

"Do it, Dad!" Don felt like howling. "Those choppers belong to the FBI. It will mean that we have the suspect vehicles in sight. All you can do is get in the way. Go home, Dad. Please." _Don't mention the fact that Rivera—and Charlie—would be out of reach if his father hadn't pulled this crazy stunt._

"I see the chopper," his father said. "You sure you don't want me to get the license plates?"

"I'm sure." Don had never so sure of anything in his life. "Please, Dad. Turn around and go home." He hung up before his father could argue any further. He turned to Megan. "Get everyone moving right now. Lights and sirens until we're a couple of miles away from the destination. Go."

* * *

Charlie had thought that he couldn't be any more miserable than when he was stuck in _Abuelito's_ study. He found out that he couldn't have been more wrong. The situation was infinitely worse.

A comparison chart would work well. In the study in the hacienda, he could move around in a severely prescribed area. He could sit, stand, and even lie down on the floor if he were willing to share floor space with a few thousand spiders. The furnishings were comfortable but threadbare and old and filthy.

Here, in contrast, in this room with his fellow captives, the furnishings were sumptuous and clean. There were heavy drapes that did a magnificent job of muffling what little noise there was, noises mostly emanating from his fellow captives as they whimpered in fear from behind heavy gags. The carpeting was plush beneath their feet. Charlie knew this because sometime in the last hour he and the rest had been forced to remove their shoes. It made it harder to run away over the rocky desert sand outside. Of course, the fact that they were tied hand and foot to heavy metal rings fastened to the walls also tended to prevent escape.

Yet another comparison: in the study, Charlie had been hungry and thirsty. Here not only was he hungry and thirsty but the smells seeping in from the room next door were driving him mad. Someone in the other room was an excellent cook. Some of the aromas floated through: cinnamon, a hint of fresh oranges, the tantalizing scent of fresh ginger. So many scents meant a banquet next door. Wonderful. A feast before the auction. Charlie tugged at the ropes encircling his wrists. Blood oozed forth, scraping the skin below. Wasn't that supposed to make things slippery? Maybe he could get these ropes off before the main event, free everyone and make a daring escape. That would be nice. That would be _more_ than nice.

The doors swung open. Charlie's heart sank.

Rivera had gathered together a collection of very rich men, men who were accustomed to getting what they wanted in this world and who knew that they needed to pay heavily for the privilege of ignoring laws and common decency. Charlie had worked to bring a few of those down during his time consulting for the NSA. Just fringe work, never came in contact with any of the slime, but enough to know that such people existed and that they shouldn't. Exist, that is.

And here was a collection of them, all gathered in this little room, scum of the earth every one of them, feasting their eyes on the assortment of human beings that would be going to new homes as property tonight, and heaven only knew what else. Charlie's eyes automatically went to one of the girls, one of the braver ones, who had tears running down her face but hadn't made a sound. Pilar, that was her name, Charlie had learned before they'd all been gagged. And her brother Miguel, tied to metal rung on the other side of the room, still trying to work his way out of the thick ropes. Every one of them had a name. Every one of them had a family, a family that would likely never see them again. Charlie swallowed hard. Charlie himself would probably fit into that same category.

"A little peek before dinner," Rivera announced to his appreciative crowd. "Here, look at this one." He fondled the boy closest to the entrance, lifting the boy's chin into the air for all to see the fine lines of the youngster's face. "Very young. He will last his owner a long time."

"A bit skinny," one of the prospective buyers said dismissively. "I like something with a few less bones. What about that one?" He pointed at Pilar.

"Very nice," Rivera agreed, looking past the stringy black hair, courtesy of the hosing down two hours ago. Pilar looked daggers at them; if she hadn't been gagged, she would have spat at them. And not missed.

Rivera gestured at one of his bodyguards. A small smile played across the big man's face; he had been given a treat. Taking hold of Pilar's blouse—nothing more than a wet tee shirt—he wrenched it apart. The material ripped.

Pilar tried to cry out, but the gag prevented more than a whimper of outrage. Bare skin glistened with drops of left-over hose water, a caramel-colored satin of flawless flesh. She struggled against the ropes, unable to resist the bodyguard's actions. Rivera's guest advanced to fondle the wares that Rivera was showing him. He took his time to explore what he wanted. "Yes, very nice," he agreed. "Senor, are you certain that I cannot purchase this one before the auction begins? I would pay very well."

"As would I," another guest insisted, sliding his own hand underneath some of the remaining clothing. Pilar tried to twist away, but the bodyguard held her firmly.

"What about the scientist? Rivera, you said that you had a scientist for sale," another put in. "Is that him?" He pointed at Charlie. "He looks too young to be worth anything."

_Great._ _First I'm too old, now I'm too young. Just hope that soon I won't be too dead._

"He is a professor," Rivera insisted, a smirk on his face. "See, I have his ID card here. I even had someone look him up on the Internet; he is well-respected as a scientist. He has published many books."

_Not all that many books. Mostly articles in professional journals. And some of the stuff I've done is still under lock and key at the NSA. Too scary to publish_.

The man grabbed Charlie's hair, forcing his head backwards. His voice was harsh, with Teutonic overtones. "He's not bad looking despite the bruises. You're certain he's a scientist?"

"See for yourself." Rivera held out the ID card. "Of course, you can always use him in your bed as well. In fact, that probably will be a good idea. My men tell me that he wasn't very cooperative when they found him. He'll need a little softening up in order to be useful."

"Hm." The man gestured to Rivera's bodyguard, who was only too willing to help out. Charlie's own tee shirt was ripped off his chest.

_Still wet._ _The air feels cold. Didn't want that tee shirt any more; after _Abuelito's _study, it was filthy beyond redemption_.

The man's hands felt dirty. Charlie couldn't help it; he squirmed, trying to flinch away. The man's hands lingered, caressing the muscles that he found there, pinching just to see Charlie's reaction, staring into his eyes with a hunger that Charlie found more than a little disturbing.

"His pants," the man demanded, reaching.

But Rivera stayed his hand. "You can do whatever you like with him—after you purchase him."

"I want to see him. All of him. I want to make sure that I'm getting my money's worth."

"After the auction," Rivera repeated.

"What's the matter?" the man threw at Rivera. "Doesn't he have all his parts? Why can't we see for ourselves? What's wrong with him?"

Rivera sighed dramatically, not at all unhappy to have been talked into this. "Very well." He motioned to his men. "Strip him."

Charlie bucked, fighting both the ropes and the men who were man-handling him. More hands, he realized; hands reaching and touching and stroking and—_dammit, I'm going to be sick—_

"Enough," Rivera commanded. "He's choking! Turn him on his side, quickly! Stay with him," he told one of the guards. "Make sure that he doesn't choke altogether; take the gag out if you have to. Come, my friends, back to the banquet. A simple bite to eat, then the auction will begin."

Through watering eyes Charlie could see the 'guests' file back out, gasping for breath through the thick gag. He could see the lingering gaze that several men sent in his direction.

Charlie had never felt so afraid in his life.

* * *

David materialized beside Don, the only thing visible in the dark the whites of his eyes. There were no lights where they hid, only two small street lamps in the distance barely pointing out Rivera's estate. Even the moon decided that the sliver of luminescence that it grudgingly presented would hide behind the single cloud in the night sky for the moment.

The estate too was dark. The windows were black, not even any light from behind heavy curtains escaping into the night. Don almost couldn't make out the outlines of the enormous building, the wing that spread back into the mountainside and another that provided protection for an Olympic-sized pool. The only noises were the quiet shushing of the waves of the pool and the crickets singing for their supper. It would have looked to be as abandoned as Dr. del Castillo's hacienda project if it were not for the acutely manicured lawn and gardens.

But Don knew better. There were two nondescript white vans parked inside an over-sized garage, along with more than a dozen limousines and foreign sports jobseach of whichcost more than twice his annual salary. There were a lot of heavy hitters inside attending a slave auction and having a lovely party. Don intended to crash that party.

David put his lips close to Don's ear. "We need back up. This place is huge."

"No time. It took us two hours to get here driving flat out. If we wait another two hours, the party'll be over and they'll have scattered."

"I counted more than forty men outside the house. All with guns. _Big_ guns, Don. They're ready to take on a small army."

David didn't need to add more. The FBI team, without LAPD or Border Patrol, numbered twenty and Don was willing to acknowledge that Rivera's private army, supplemented by the troops brought by his 'guests', quite likely had enough firepower to make their single shot rifles look like pop guns. Going in with a frontal assault would be nothing less than suicide. And that was before anyone took a head count on how many armed guards Rivera had inside.

Don willed himself to think of a plan. _This is all your fault, Charlie. You and your numbers. We've got twenty, they've got forty or more. How do we make twenty equal forty? Got a theorem for that, buddy?_

One of the guards lit up a cigarette, the light flaring briefly in the dark before extinguishing, then the cigarette itself glowed each time the man took a puff. It identified the man's exact position. _I could hit that guy with a baseball_, Don thought grimly. _All that practice that Area Director D'Angelo has been throwing me into this past two weeks. I could knock the apple off someone's head like William Tell…_

He froze. The guards were singletons, placed apart from each other so as to cover the greatest amount of the perimeter. Most couldn't see each other. It was only when one did something like light a cigarette that anyone could tell that the place wasn't deserted. Don would bet that it hadn't been by accident. Too many men outside would attract unwanted attention. And if there was anything that Don Juan Rivera _didn't_ want right now, it was attention.

Don cast around for a stone the approximate size of a baseball. It would be heavy, but that couldn't be helped. The size alone would have to do.

"Don, what are you doing?" Megan hissed under her breath.

"Evening the odds."

"Are you crazy?"

"Probably. You got a better idea?"

David stepped in. "No. But I can help." Bright teeth flashed briefly in the night. He pointed at one set of bushes. The on duty guard, bored out of his skull and yawning, was almost not visible. "I'll start there and work my way around to the center. Just don't mistake me for one of them." He grinned again. "Brings back memories of skulking around the Old Town in Tel Aviv. Never thought those skills would be useful again."

Colby stepped up. "Not as cold as Afghanistan but a bunch more bushes. I'll have to thank Rivera's gardeners after we're done. I'll hit that other side of the house." He eyed Don, the stone in Don's hand. "No walks, okay boss?"

"You got it."

Don hefted the stone. It felt heavy, but not too bad. He smiled grimly to himself, the expression lost in the night. He wasn't a pitcher, but his arm was good. There were plenty of times where he'd thrown to home, thrown to the catcher to beat the runner. Those balls had to be dead on, straight to the catcher's mitt. He'd been good at it, one of the reasons he'd made it so far in the minors. 'Dead-eye Don' was one of the nicknames that the local papers had tagged him with for a season or two before moving on to the major league hotties.

He chose his target. The plan was slowly coming into reality: the FBI was out-numbered and out-gunned. In order to rescue the people inside, they had to even the odds and they had to do it fast before the party broke up. They had to take down the outside force, and do it quietly so that whatever army inside remained unaware. It meant taking out the guards one by one.

He saw a guard on his right go from a black blob upright to a black blob on the ground, saw a shadow move on. The same thing happened to his left, and Don never felt so proud of his team as he did right then. Megan, acting as communications officer, ghosted to the rest of the FBI agents, filling them in on what was happening. Two more agents slid off into the darkness toward another section of the house, faces grim.

_More covert ops trained people, Megan?_

_You got it, boss_.

Deep breath with an upwardly directed thank you. Don didn't have covert ops, but he did have something that they didn't: a damn fine arm. He slipped three fingers around the rock, trying to convince himself that it was a smooth and round baseball, rotating his shoulder to loosen the muscles. _Only one chance at this, Eppes._ _The count is three balls and two strikes. He's either out, or he walks. And you don't want to walk him_.

His vision narrowed down to the one spot: the guard's head. _Drill it in, Eppes. Put it in the catcher's mitt. This is it._

It went fast. He always threw better when he did it fast. And this way he didn't have too much time to think.

He threw.

The guard went down without a sound.

_Yes!_

Megan found him more stones, all the approximate size of baseballs, with smooth edges for a better grip and better concussion power. They were easy to find out here in the California desert. He chose carefully from among the selection of miniature boulders, going from best to worst, re-evaluating as more stones appeared. He went for the stones that felt most like the smooth and warm surface of a baseball.

The rest of the team, when it was safe, sidled over to the fallen guards and pulled them away to a handling area. There, the guards relieved of their guns and still relieved of the responsibility to stay awake, two agents were detailed to keep them quiet and out of the fray.

It took too long to subdue all forty, but Don couldn't afford to think about that. It was the only way they had. Megan had called for back up but, as Don himself had pointed out, it would take hours to get here. They would have to gather men from home, men who would understandably grumble about being called back in, and ship them out here to the High Desert. The original plan had called for LAPD and the Border Patrol to supply troops. After the hacienda fiasco, Don didn't dare try that avenue.

The answer came back. Megan, during one of her rock hunting forays, whispered, "I heard from Tech. It was one of the Border Patrol people, McNamera. He made a call to Rivera on his cell shortly after arriving at Headquarters."

Hah. That explained how Rivera had been able to avoid so many Border Patrols in crossing his cargo over the border. "Send someone to pick him up."

"Already done. They found him with his bags packed, trying to run."

The next rock had just a little more power and satisfaction behind it.

Next part: the mansion itself. Don didn't want to think about how many rooms they would have to search or how many more guards there would be. This would be more difficult. They couldn't count on the guards being singletons as they had been outside. They would have to take down groups. More chance for noise.

More chance for failure.

* * *

Half over. Charlie had never thought to be grateful for gags. Sure, sometimes for a couple of mouthy undergrads who thought they could outthink him, but never seriously.

This was serious. The auction was half over, and if it weren't for the gags, the room would have been filled with hysterically crying kids, himself included.

Charlie had always wondered if Don had sanitized the stories that he told about his cases, made them seem a little less horrific than they were. Don had always considered Charlie naïve and their father only a little less so. The tales that Don recounted always seemed to have a couple of details left out, some glossed over, a mistake or two that Charlie picked up on that suggested that some of the misery had been carefully swept under the carpet.

Today, Charlie knew for certain. His brother had tried to protect him. Even though Charlie had gone to crime scenes, had seen the aftermath, it didn't compare to the real thing.

This was horrible.

They were more than half way through the 'event'. One by one, the children—and Charlie used the word in its true sense—were dragged to the stage, kicking and struggling, screams muffled by the gags, then stripped of their meager clothing and displayed to the audience for minute examination. Humiliation didn't begin to describe what they felt.

Then the bidding began.

The bidding was in American dollars. Charlie could see some of the buyers with calculators, working through the exchange rates, estimating the worth of the merchandise, struggling with calculations that Charlie ran automatically and effortlessly through his own mind. Some of the bidders ran brothels and were looking for fresh meat, both male and female. Others wanted the children for more sinister purposes. Those were the worst; the ones practically salivating over the terrified kids, thinking about what unspeakable acts they could perform on them. Charlie tried to find a pattern in what he was seeing: were the girls worth more than the boys? Did it have something to do with how skinny each one was? Whether they tried to scream or merely whimper quietly, sinking into shock to be led away on a leash? Charlie couldn't stand to watch, so he took his refuge in trying to make the scene fit into tidy and comforting numbers, closing his eyes to block out the reality of the scene.

Rivera took the part of the auctioneer, a grotesque mockery of elegance standing before a podium with a gavel. "This young lady is only fourteen, so she'll have plenty of years in her, gentlemen. Note the barely emerging breasts—" and he twisted at a sensitive part, squeezing out a startled and outraged yelp from behind the gag—"and you can see that her spirit hasn't been broken. This one is not for the meek, gentlemen, and I suggest that you bind her tightly if you don't want her to run away the first chance she gets. What am I offered?"

A lot. Charlie was astounded at the quantities of cash being tossed casually back and forth. These were men who meant business in one form or another. It sickened him.

"I do have a few rooms with sound-proofing in another part of the house if you can't wait to try out your new purchases," Rivera announced by way of an incentive. "They won't have all the amenities you're used to, but I do have plenty of rope. And I've certified your purchases as clean." He frowned. "All except for our last prize. He was rather a late-comer, and I didn't have the opportunity to have him checked over. Given his history, though, I doubt that will be an issue for anyone."

Rivera was talking about him, Charlie realized. Once again, his blood ran cold. He couldn't believe that this was happening. This didn't happen to mild-mannered math professors. Mathematicians didn't get trapped inside old hidden rooms, kidnapped by drug dealers, and sold to slave traders as an interesting side line. It just didn't happen.

But it was. It was his turn. Rivera's men dragged him up to the stage, unable to walk with his feet hobbled together.

"An interesting acquisition. You can turn him to a variety of uses, friends. There's always the usual." Rivera turned Charlie around to display his back. "Look at this skin. Untouched by any whip. Virgin territory, friends. A little older than the rest, but very teachable." Rivera turned Charlie back around to face the buyers. "And you've already seen the rest of him; you know what's there and what you can do to him." Charlie's face flamed. He could see that particular buyer in front, the one who had insisted on tactilely examining 'the wares'. The man was licking his lips. Charlie swallowed hard, willing himself not to heave.

"Of course, the more business-minded of you will also be interested in him as a pass through purchase. Think about what he'll bring on the black market! This is a certified genius, friends! Consider the acquaintances that you have, where you might broker a lucrative deal—"

"Enough," the man in front broke in. "Start the bidding. I wager one hundred thousand."

"Two."

"Three."

"Half a million."

Rivera beamed. It was substantially more than anything he received for any of his other items. The illegal immigrants were, in his opinion, a dime a dozen, and easily replaced by bringing another unsuspecting group across the border and kidnapping them. But this one? Clearly he had lucked onto a very valuable piece, and he intended to make the most of it. He preened.

One buyer backed out, shaking his head. "I'm an end user, not a retailer. He's interesting, but not that interesting." He looked down at his previous purchase. It was Pilar, tied at his feet. "Come along, bitch. Crawl if you can't walk."

The daggers in her eyes were enough to kill, but the gag prevented her from saying anything.

Rivera re-focused their attention. "I have half a million, gentlemen? Do I hear one million? What is he worth?"

"One million."

It went on. Charlie found it hard to believe that they were bidding on him. This didn't happen in real life.

They'd get him back. Don would find him. The NSA, knowing what secrets Charlie had in his head, would mount a rescue operation. They'd get him before—

"Sold!" Rivera brought the gavel down.

And Charlie hadn't even heard the final sale price.

He froze. He saw the winner. The buyer. The purchaser. His new owner: the man with the intrusive hands. Who was now licking his lips in anticipation.

Charlie threw up into the gag.

* * *

There were four entrances, and Don split his team of twenty into four with five agents each. "Remember, silence is the operative word. We don't know how many are inside, but we still may be out-numbered. We nibble away at the edges until we take them all down." _And rescue the hostages_, his mind added bleakly. "The longer we keep them unaware of what's happening, the better our chance of success. Move out."

The other teams moved. Don had kept working units together as much as possible, so he had his own team with him plus one.

The lock yielded to the pick, and Don slipped his tools away, hoping that Rivera hadn't invested in a silent alarm system. One by one, they stepped inside, keeping their footsteps silent.

They went room by room. Inside, the curtains carefully masking the windows, it was bright and cheery and easily to see the three guards lounging around the kitchen table, sipping at coffee and looking longingly at the bottles of scotch on the counter. The guards were clearly too well-trained to drink on the job, but that didn't stop them from wishing.

Not well-trained enough. Don held up his hand: _one, two, three_.

They leaped into the kitchen, guns drawn.

"FBI. Hands on the table," Don said quietly, icy steel in his voice, hoping there was no one else in the next room over. "Unless you want to have a brand new hole in your head."

Sheer bluff. Silence was what was needed, and a gunshot would ruin that. But the guards didn't know that. Guns were confiscated, hands tied, and the fifth member of Don's team, an agent named Lowe, was assigned to keep them quiet.

Don took a moment to check on the other teams.

"Three taken out here," was one reply.

"Two here."

"Got six. Bastards, everyone of them. Found one of the hostages. Manny is questioning him now. Kid's an illegal, just got 'sold' to one of the slime that we took down. You don't want to know what they were doing to this kid, Don." The agent's voice took on a grim tone. "I'm going to have a hard time describing this to a judge in polite language. I've already called for the paramedics."

"Practice with your report. Where are the other hostages?" _Where was Charlie?_ was what Don really meant. "How many?"

"Don't know how many guards, although not as many as outside. The kid says there were twelve hostages, six boys and six girls, that crossed the border. And one older man that joined them in the house, he says." The agent didn't have to add _your brother_. That went without saying. The entire L.A. division of the FBI knew that Charlie was missing. The entire L.A. division of the FBI had volunteered to assist with the search. "He says he got taken away before they started bidding on the older man." Carefully not saying Charlie's name. It might not be Charlie. It wasn't a given. Charlie, frustrated with the density of the current freshman class, could have taken an impromptu camping trip and left his cell phone behind to clear his head instead of being held captive in this place and auctioned off like a Ming Dynasty vase with a crack in it.

And there was always the possibility that the sun might decide to rise in the West tomorrow.

"Room by room," Don directed. "Clear out everything, and keep it quiet until we know that we've gotten everyone. Hostages a priority. Let's keep count, and make sure that we get all twelve. Thirteen." _Lucky thirteen: my brother_.

* * *

The buyer licked his lips, dry-washed his hands. "Come along, little professor," he crooned. "Come to papa. We're going to have such a _good_ time."

Charlie's knees felt weak. This couldn't be happening!

Rivera finished making a notation on his papers. "Would you like a room next door?"

"No," the buyer decided. "No, I want to have him in my own little playroom, with my own things, for the first time and for a few times after that. The professor and I are going to be doing some very _interesting_ research while I arrange for the sale of his brains. Wouldn't you like that, professor?" He giggled.

No, Charlie would definitely not like that.

"You realize that you are responsible for getting him out of the country," Rivera reminded the buyer. "Security has tightened up considerably over the last few years."

The buyer waved a dismissive hand. "Not a problem. In fact, we'll be leaving momentarily. I've made all the arrangement, although I didn't realize that I'd have such valuable cargo. Hold him, please."

Rivera's guards tightened their grips on Charlie's arms. Charlie tensed.

The buyer pulled out a small bottle with a clean white handkerchief and poured some of the bottle's contents onto the cloth. An acrid odor permeated the air. "Hold him," he repeated, licking his lips. "He may struggle a bit. They generally do, and very nicely, I might add." He pressed the moist handkerchief against Charlie's nose.

Bitter smells assaulted him. Charlie tried not to inhale, tried to keep the noxious odors out. He fought to turn his head away, but the buyer was relentless and the guards too strong.

"That's it, nice deep breaths," the buyer crooned. "It'll all be over in a moment." He held the cloth more firmly against Charlie's face, grabbing Charlie's head with his other hand to stabilize and force the anesthesia into him.

_Dizziness._ _Nausea. Don't breathe! Fight! Fight, dammit! Escape!_

Knees going.

Blackness.

_Damn…

* * *

_

The main foyer became the impromptu holding area for captured guards and customers. The hostages Megan took outside, many too overwrought to keep from wailing once the gags were removed from their mouths, and that would have alerted the remainder of Rivera's people. Most of the captured guards simply watched the agents with bored expressions: it was their bosses that the FBI was after, not the bodyguards. A year or two at most behind bars, and they'd be out looking for work. Not worth fighting over. Even the buyers merely glared at the agents with hatred, no doubt adding the cost of expensive lawyers to their lost purchases.

"How many?" Don asked, looking over the haul grimly.

"We got all of the twelve hostages," Megan told him. "They're all right. Shaken up and upset, but all right for the most part. We got to them in time." She indicated one girl who was comforting a boy three inches taller than she. "That's Pilar, and Miguel. Senora Colon's children. She'll be relieved, probably enough to tell us everything she knows about Rivera's operations."

"Where's Rivera?" Don asked. _And Charlie_, he wanted to add.

"We have the top floor left to search," David said, "and the basement. Which do you want?"

The decision was clear. "I'll take the basement." It sounded the most likely. "And I want you and Colby with me. Have Gallagher and his team sweep the top floor."

* * *

They found Rivera in the basement, counting his illegal earnings. The man wasn't hard to take down; he was alone, not trusting anyone but himself when it came to money. One peep into the room saw the man all alone. Don slammed the door open, pulled his gun, and snarled, "FBI! Freeze!"

If it had been a single FBI agent, he thought later, then Rivera might have gone for the pistol that he kept under the podium that he was writing on and Don would have been able to put a bullet between the scum's eyes without regret. But David and Colby flanking the senior FBI agent made the difference. Rivera surrendered. Better to let the lawyers fight it out. That's whatRivera paid them for. This American system of justice, it would merely give Rivera a slap on the wrist, a fine, and he could go back to business as usual.

Don let the criminal think that. This time would be different. This time, Rivera hadn't distanced himself from the dirty work, from the drug dealing and the border crossings. This time, they'd caught Rivera with his pants down. Or, rather, with pants down on his hostages.

"Where's Charlie?" he demanded, getting in Rivera's face.

"Who?" Rivera smiled, unafraid. Clearly he knew exactly who Don was, had known ever since the agent had been assigned to take over the case. Don Juan Rivera was not a stupid man. "Oh, you mean the little professor? I made a lot of money on him, money that has already been wired to my off-shore account."

"You—" Don hauled back.

David caught his arm. "Don! Don't help him walk on a technicality."

Don sobered immediately. David was right. They needed answers from this man, needed to find Charlie first. "Where is he?"

Rivera laughed. "Gone." He leaned forward. "This man, he means something to you, doesn't he?"

"Where is he?" Don growled.

Rivera laughed again. "I can tell you who bought him, and what country he will go to. But only if you let me go."

Don got into Rivera's face. He spoke in a very quiet voice. "That man is my brother. And he's helped everyone of us in the FBI. If you want to walk out of this place alive, without suffering a very serious 'accident', then you will tell us where he is. Do you understand me?"

David and Colby thought it was a bluff. They thought that Don did it extremely well. They didn't know that Don—

Megan called frantically over the radio. "Don! The garage! There's someone out there!"

Don flew out of there, calling for Colby to deliver Rivera to their pseudo-holding cell and collect the rest of the agents. There was no time to waste.

_Shots fired!_

Don raced out of the house, David on his heels, to find Megan with a smoking gun.

"There!" she called out, pointing. "He's getting away!"

It wasn't easy to see in the dark, but as Don's eyes swiftly adjusted he could see a car slewing across the road, a tire shot out, the desperate driver inside trying to control the vehicle and carry the passengers to their escape despite the flat. Even as he watched, the car tipped into a ditch, the nose diving in and the tail rising up. Three people staggered out.

Don was already running down the slope to the scene, David and Megan and six others after him, guns drawn.

"FBI! Hands in the air!" he barked.

Two pairs of hands went up, one staggering to keep his feet on the rocky side of the road. A third set of handsfumbled fora gun.

Three pistols went off. The gun dropped to the sand, almost invisible in the dark. The body followed.

"On your knees," David ordered the two survivors, pulling out handcuffs. Megan twisted the other's arms behind him, slapping her own cuffs on the second prisoner.

Don toed the gun away from the third man, checking swiftly to make certain that he would never menace anyone ever again. He peered inside the upended car, searching the empty interior swiftly. "Where's Charlie?" _Dammit, was this the wrong car? Was Charlie with another one of those pieces of slime, being shipped like so much cargo to another country?_

David nudged his captive with the barrel of his gun. "You heard the man. Where is he?"

"In the trunk." A flunky, and not stupid. His boss had already gone down. He didn't need to do the same.

"Give me a hand." Leaving Megan to keep a gun on their two captives, Don and David pushed at the car until they could reach the end of the car stuck up in the air. "Charlie? Charlie? You in there? Can you hear me, buddy?"

No answer. It took a moment for Don's heart to start beating again. He demanded that it beat swiftly; Don needed the strength to continue the search.

"Keys," he demanded.

"In the ignition."

David retrieved them, still dangling from the starter, and fumbled to find the right one. Don willed him to hurry.

The trunk wouldn't open. A dent at the wrong place—

Don couldn't wait. He grabbed the edge of the trunk and heaved. Metal tore, shrieking.

There was a body inside. A limp body.

"Charlie?" _Was he breathing?_

"Help me get him out, Don." David seized Don's brother under the shoulders, wrestling him out of the trunk of the car. He caught a whiff of something, yes, he knew the smell—

"Chloroform. A real devotee of old-fashioned methods," David said in disgust.

Don didn't care. He wrestled with the gag in Charlie's mouth, using his pocket knife when the fabric refused to come apart in his fingers. "Is he—?"

"He's breathing, Don." David put a reassuring hand on Don's wrist. "He's breathing. Let's get these ropes off of him." He raised his voice. "Megan, call up to Colby. We need the medical kit, and the oxygen in Don's vehicle."

"Is he all right?"

"He will be," David chuckled in relief.

Don pulled off his jacket, tucking it under his brother's head, still alarmed at how limp the man was. Charlie's shirt was ripped to the point of being useless against the cool night air, and Don shucked his own shirt as a meager covering. What if Charlie wasn't all right? What was Don going to tell their father?

Charlie groaned.

"Charlie? You all right, buddy?"

Another groan. "Don?"

"It's okay, buddy. We've got you." Don could feel the sweat breaking out in relief.

"How…?"

"Long story, buddy." Don accepted the blanket from Megan, draping it over Charlie's body. "Here, breathe this."

Charlie, unaccountably, fought him, panic flaring.

"Charlie, it's oxygen. Charlie, listen, it's me! Put this on."

"It's oxygen," David added, leaning over to help. "It's okay, Charlie. You're safe. We've got you."

Charlie coughed, settling feebly. "Sick."

"It's the chloroform," David told him. "People in the Middle East use it all the time because it's cheap and easy to get. Makes you sick as a dog afterward."

"Keep the oxygen on," Don told Charlie, not convinced. Nothing would convince him until he saw his brother up and walking around. Healthy. Whole. "Lie still; I've got you. You all right?"

Charlie started to shake. "Sick."

"He's going into shock," David said. "Megan, you called for the medics?"

"Helicopter's coming in," she called back. "We're too far out for an ambulance to get here in any kind of time. Colby's bringing down more blankets."

"Good." Don tried to get control of himself. "I'll stay with Charlie. David, you take over here. Bring back the Suburban for me." He handed over his keys.

David caught his arm. "He's going to be okay, Don. You got here in time."

"Yeah. We all did." Don clutched the shaking form a little tighter. Then he pulled out his cell phone. There was a very important call that needed to be made, one that couldn't wait. "Dad?"

"Donnie?" Full of hope. Full of fear.

"We got him, Dad. He's going to be all right."

* * *

The ball arced high in the air. Easy out; Don caught it in a well-worn glove and fired it at the catcher. Colby, behind the catcher's mask, just barely got his own glove on the ball in time to tag the runner heading in from third base.

From the bleachers, Charlie sat with his father, Larry, and Amita. The bruises on his face had faded, the black eye a mere shadow half-disguised by the cap that he wore to block the sun. "That's the third one in six innings." He scratched another mark on his clipboard. He coughed, and took a sip of his drink.

"He's carrying the team," Alan agreed. "I don't think I've ever seen him throw so hard. Colby's having a hard time catching them."

Charlie shrugged. "Score's eight to one. We're blasting LAPD out of the ball park." He grinned. "Seems like old times, Don playing ball and me keeping the stats."

Larry nodded. "Your brother is quite good, Charles. I knew that he had played ball, but it's a different story between hearing it and seeing him in action."

"No wonder the director wanted him to play," Amita added. "How much was the wager?"

Charlie smirked. "Don wouldn't tell me, but David thinks that it's in the five hundred range. Plus bragging rights; infinitely more valuable." He coughed again.

Alan thwacked him on the back. "You sure you're all right? The doctors—"

"The doctors all said I'm fine, Dad."

"They said you got pneumonia from that stuff you were drugged with. You've only been out of bed for two days. Maybe I should take you home."

"Maybe you should get us all another round of drinks instead," Charlie suggested. "The profits all go to charity. Isn't that how this all started? With you telling me to give something to charity? Elena del Castillo's hacienda type charity?"

"Smart aleck," Alan muttered, a gleam in his eye.

* * *

Don stepped down into the dugout, pulling off his cap to wipe his brow. It was hot under the Los Angeles sun. The bleachers were filled with spectators, friends and family of both the FBI and LAPD, and a stand stacked with the kids that would benefit from this charity. Don automatically scanned the area for his family, relaxing only when he spotted his father and brother at ease on the hot seats. _Safe._ And Don wasn't thinking about the runner at second.

Area Director D'Angelo, the official coach of the FBI team, greeted him. "Nice work, Eppes. Can you bang in another homer this inning?" White teeth flashed with an almost grin. "Wouldn't mind rubbing it in, just this once. LAPD was a little snarky last time." Another grin. "And Police Chief Williams is whining about us bringing in a ringer, like he hasn't done the same thing for the last two games. Don't mind telling you, Don; I'm enjoying this. My ringer is whaling the tar out of his _two_ ringers." D'Angelo cocked his head. "And those balls you're throwing. Don't remember you putting quite that much power on in practice."

Don rubbed his shoulder. The memory of his brother shuddering on the rocky hillside would stay with him for quite a while. A vision of another guard beaned by astone floated in front of him; that same vision had haunted his nightmares for the last two nights. An inch off target, and the guard would have gone screaming for help. Nice incentive for accuracy. "Got in a little extra practice time, you might say." He went for a return grin. "Anything for charity, sir."


End file.
